


In The Skin Of A Lion

by ContreParry



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Eventual Romance, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, magical transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9798452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContreParry/pseuds/ContreParry
Summary: The tale of Anders, a mild mannered beast, and Fenris, the rough beauty who loves him. Pair with wine and a fireside.





	1. Where All Tales Must Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from [tearsofwinter](http://tearsofwinter.tumblr.com). I hope I can do the prompt justice, since it was so fun and inspiring! Thank you for sharing your prompts and stories on your tumblr, they always brighten my day!

There is a crumbling mansion that stands in the high district of the port city of Kirkwall. The stucco walls have long gone black and gray from extensive damage caused by a fire many, many years ago. It is a ruin, a shell of its former glory. There are holes in the broken slate tile roofing. The wood is rotting and splintered. Small plants and fungus poke out of the carpet. For all intents and purposes it appears to be abandoned. 

But faint noises come from inside those walls. The people whisper and point at the filthy windows that stare out at the world like a dead man’s eyes. The lawn is overgrown and ivy covers the ruins. But there is someone who roams the abandoned halls. Late at night the sound of glass breaking and a low voice cursing the sky, the earth, and the Maker himself echoes through the mansion. 

The city folk give the building a wide berth during the day, and they do not dare approach when the sun sinks behind the horizon. Rumors fly through Kirkwall concerning what could lurk in that mansion. Regardless of class or race or creed, everyone has an opinion on the mansion and its inhabitant. 

Children claim that a monster with teeth of iron and claws of polished steel lurks in those rotting halls, waiting to snatch and gobble up its latest victims. The men loudly boast that it is only a wolf, settling in for the winter, and they would chase it out save for the pity they felt in their hearts. Best to leave it alone, they say, assuring each other that there is no great, pressing danger. The townswomen gossip and say it was no monster or wolf, but a restless spirit sobbing for a lost love. The truth was that the inhabitant of the mansion was no ghost. 

But they might as well have been. 

As the sun rose over the mansion, light poured through the empty windows and rested on a pile of musty, faded blankets. Something under the blankets shuddered awake, and a low groan of agony broke the silence. A head of messy pale hair poked out of a faded dusty rose blanket, and a pair of bottle green eyes blinked open to stare into the bright morning light. 

”Fucking sun!” A low, muffled voice growled out, and the pile of blankets wiggled and shifted until a man-shaped lump fell to the floor. The lump rose until a slim figure stood in the morning light. After another groan, the man shuffled to the washroom and splashed freezing water on his face. 

”Fasta Vass, it’s fucking cold!” The man growled at his reflection, and he stumbled back to his room to dress. He would have to purchase breakfast. Only food could soak up the wine in his empty belly. Food for the empty belly and a bottle of healing potion from that one stall run by the beardless dwarf to deal with the headache. Once dressed he picked his way around broken glass and rotting wood to find his way to the front door and walked into the street. 

There were the stares, the all too familiar whispers behind hands and the suspicious looks. There goes that elf again, the pretty one with the green eyes and sharp tongue. So grim, so dark, doesn’t he live in that haunted ruin? Yes, and he shouts at ghosts, or his past, or visions brought on by drink. Such a shame, such a pity. He would be quite handsome, if he were not so mad and learned to smile. Handsome for an elf they would add, hastily covering their admiration with sheepish smiles. 

The man ignored the remarks and the whispers. He shouldered his way through the morning crowds until he arrived at the beardless dwarf’s stall in the main square and dropped a small pouch filled with coin on the plain pine plank that served as a counter. 

”Healing potion.” He croaked out. The taste of stale wine was still heavy on his tongue. 

”Morning to you too, elf.” The dwarf said cheerfully, his eyes glinting with playful humor as he started his typical banter. “Nice day. Birds chirping, dog shit everywhere on the streets, humans bumping about every which way- very pleasant.” 

”Healing potion. Now.” He pushed the coin purse closer to the dwarf, who sighed and slowly counted out the coin twice before handing the healing potion to the elf, who downed it in one great gulp. The sharp taste of mint and bitter, earthy tang of some other herb filled his mouth and cleaned out the taste of wine. 

”What else will you be needing, Fenris?” The dwarf asked once the potion cleared away the fog of a vicious hangover. The elf, Fenris, shook his head and blinked his eyes once, twice, three times to clear them. 

”I am well.” Fenris finally said. “I need no more potions, Varric.” Varric rolled his eyes and counted out his owed coin one more time before depositing the rest in Fenris’s coin purse. 

”Wonder where you get the coin to pay for all of this.” Varric remarked. “Don’t see you playing with the merchant guild, and you don’t run with the mercs.” 

”I take bounties from the guard or work at the docks. I hunted a group of bandits terrorizing the main road and collected the reward.” Fenris said. “How much coin do I have left?” 

”Two sovereigns, nine silvers, and twelve coppers. Plenty to feed you for the week. Possibly for the rest of the month if you’re thrifty.” Varric replied. “Can’t believe you trust me enough to count it out, I could cheat you at any time.” 

”You would only cheat at cards.” Fenris muttered. “You value your reputation more than gathering coin.” 

”You know me too well.” Varric chuckled. “Go and grab some food before Isabela stumbles out of whatever tavern she stumbled into and drapes herself all over you.” 

”Isabela has returned?” 

”She sailed in last night on The Mermaid. Drank the regulars under the table and slept with every tavern wench in sight.” Varric joked. Isabela was another merchant, or so she claimed. Fenris suspected she was involved in shadier exploits than carting cloth and spices across the seas. But Fenris never asked, and Isabela never clarified. 

”I see.” Fenris said.”Good day, Varric.” He retreated into the crowd before Varric, or anyone else, could interrupt his day. 

Finding food was a simple task. Fenris sought out a familiar vendor, a young elf girl selling fruit, and bought a bag of small apples. He purchased a loaf of bread from the baker, a dozen eggs from a farmer’s wife, and a chicken from the butcher. He returned to his mansion and scrounged up a cast iron pan from the remains of the mansion’s kitchen, munching on an apple as he started a fire in the fireplace. He threw the core into the flames and cracked an egg in the pan, slowly letting it sizzle until the white of the egg firmed up and the yolk gleamed yellow. He ate the egg with a chunk of bread, the golden ooze of the egg yolk dripping off the crust to sizzle in the hot pan. Once he ate Fenris lay on his back and glared at his ceiling. The blue sky peeked through rotten beams and gold and red ivy. 

”Now what?” Fenris muttered to himself. With his hangover fixed and food in his belly there was nothing else to do. He had already listened to the rumors in the marketplace and found that there was no work for the day. He could haul crates at the docks, or even go to the tavern to seek out some menial labor. There was always someone who would hire willing hands and a strong back for a day’s work. But that would require speaking to strangers, and subjecting himself to their stares and judgement, and there would be _questions_. Questions about his past, his family, where he came from, and the pale scars that wound around his limbs like the ivy that curled around the roof beams. And if Fenris went to Isabela for work, well… Isabela would poke and prod and tease, and Fenris wanted to be left alone. He watched the wind blow puffy white clouds across the sky. 

”If only I were one of those clouds.” Fenris muttered. To be like a cloud, to be free to go wherever the wind took it… wouldn’t that be pleasant? Freeing? Fenris longed to be free. He had traveled for so long searching for that elusive sip of freedom, but he never savoured it on his lips. Even in Kirkwall, where a man could disappear and reforge himself, Fenris was lost and chained by his memories. Fenris sighed and shut his eyes. He would sleep for now. It was the closest to freedom he ever felt. 

Meanwhile, across town, a pale finger pointed to a vast expanse of blank space on a worn down map. The guttering candle cast shadows across the yellow parchment, looming across the spidery words that labeled the blank space _The Woods_. 

”This is where the dwarf gets his potions.” A woman’s cold voice stated. “Potions brewed with magic. Dwarves do not cast, and none of those seen in his company are mages either. He gets them from here, from a mage.” 

”It is outside our jurisdiction. The Divine and her Right and Left Hands would not condone stepping out of the boundaries our Order was assigned.” A man’s voice reasoned. The woman scoffed, a harsh sound with little lightness and no laughter. 

”We are backed by the authority of Kirkwall’s Grand Cleric herself, Captain. If there is a credible threat to the city, then we have all the authority we need.” The woman said. “If a mage lives in those woods, we must deal with it, and quickly.” 

”I will not send my men on a wild chase in those woods over rumors.” The man, the Captain, said firmly. “I will not send them into a dangerous forest full of already suspicious Dalish elves. We do not need another incident.” 

”Then I will find someone who will go, Captain.” The woman retorted. “Someone who will travel to the woods and hunt down the mage who would pollute our town with magic and magical potions.” The woman smiled, and her finger tapped against the map three times. 

”And I know exactly who to send.” 

-

Fenris woke to the sound of knocking on the front door. He blinked his eyes open and stared up into the holes in the ceiling. It was night now, and red-gray clouds floated by in wispy forms across the sky. He must have slept the day away, having stayed up all night drinking. Fenris stumbled to the door and cracked it open, just enough to spy the glint of plate steel and crisp red velvet. 

”Are you the mercenary called Fenris?” A woman’s harsh voice rang through the doorway and in Fenris’s head. It was no one he knew personally, but Fenris had an idea of who it was. 

”Who asks?” Fenris called out into the dark. 

”I am Commander Meredith of the Templar Order, and I require your sword and tracking skills.” The woman said. Fenris recognized the woman, if not personally then by name. Everyone knew of the Templars, an order of knights who tracked and monitored magic and mages throughout the land in the name of the Chantry and the Divine. Fenris was not a man of faith. He did not light candles or pray to the Maker or his bride Andraste. But Fenris still appreciated the Order’s efforts to protect the land from rogue blood mages and demons. He had enough of blood magic to last a lifetime, and Templars kept magic far, far away from him. Fenris was grateful for that small bit of protection. 

Despite the protection it offered, the Templar Order in Kirkwall alarmed Fenris. The knights watched too closely, and Fenris knew they watched him. He was fortunate that they did not hunt elves or fugitives, or else he would be in danger. They just watched, and watched, and he watched back in turn. That was why he knew who stood at his door. He knew all about Commander Meredith Stannard of the Templar Order in Kirkwall, and how she led her forces with an iron fist. He heard the rumors of supposed mages disappearing only to turn up collared and chained the next day in Templar custody. Then the accused were shipped off to Val Royeaux to stand trial before the Divine for the crime of magecraft, and Kirkwall’s Grand Cleric praised the Knight Commander for her vigilance. Magic was meant to serve man, and the powers of those rogue apostates would now serve the Chantry. But Fenris had his doubts. He came from a land where magic ruled over man, but he saw the cold greed gleaming in the Knight Commander’s blue eyes. Fenris knew that if Knight Commander Meredith was cursed with magic, she would still try to control the people around her. 

”You have the Templars under your command. Find another.” Fenris retorted. He tried to close the door, but a booted foot wedged itself between the door and its frame. There was no way to retreat from this conversation. 

”I require a scout to report back to me.” Meredith said, ignoring Fenris’s dismissal. She may not have heard him at all. She forced the door open and stepped into his crumbling foyer. Her golden blonde hair gleamed in the firelight, the flames picking up the strands of silver in her tumbling curls. The shadows only served to highlight her harsh features. She looked like the illustrations of Andraste the Chantry handed out in the elven quarter of the city, the Alienage. There was the proud tilt of her head, the barely concealed fury in her eyes, the carefully controlled line of her mouth. 

”How much?” Fenris asked reluctantly. He knew he would not be left alone until he agreed to whatever terms the Templar Commander offered. Knight Commander Meredith smiled. It was not a kind smile. 

”You will scout out the wooded area in the foothills of Sundermount. We have learned of a mage living in those woods. An apostate living so close to the borders of our city cannot be allowed.” Meredith explained, her voice clipped and tone measured. “Find them and report back to me, and you shall have your reward.” 

”What sort of reward?” Fenris asked again. She was dancing around the meat of the conversation, and Fenris ached to return to his wine and to his bed. 

”We have heard rumors of a Tevinter magister seeking out his prized slave.” The Commander said, and the light in her blue eyes was anything but merciful or kind as Fenris’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “Do this, and we will help you disappear, elf.” 

Fenris knew he was being hunted. He knew he was being watched. But he had thought he had run far enough. He thought he was safe for the time being. He thought he could disappear in a vast, dirty city like Kirkwall. But he had thought wrong. His former master was still hunting him, and he would have to run again. Unless… he glanced at Commander Meredith, who was tapping her foot against the broken marble tile of his foyer. Unless he agreed to help her. Did he have any other choice? 

”I will do as you ask.” Fenris agreed. “I will look for your apostate in the forest.” 

”Good. You depart in the morning.” Meredith ordered, and she tossed a small bag full of coins at him. “Gather supplies. Mages are dangerous, as you are doubtless aware.” The weight of the purse was heavy in his hand. He curled his fingers around the worn down fabric. If he did this, this one simple task, there would be no more running. He would be safe. Fenris looked up at the sky and the dull red clouds that signaled the rise of winter. There would be no more running. He would be _free_. 

-

Fenris departed in the morning as the sun rose, weak sunlight warm against his back. He debated walking through the woods, but decided against it and purchased a horse. If he was to travel in strange territory, having a horse would be a welcome companion. He spent the Commander’s coin purchasing the horse, a placid old mare with a gray coat and a mellow nature. He bought food for the journey, and stopped by Varric’s stall for a few extra healing potions. 

”Two days in a row, elf?” Varric teased as he counted out Fenris’s coin. “You’re not in danger of running out of wine in that cellar of yours, are you?” 

”Not for some time, dwarf.” Fenris said easily. “It is for business.” 

”Oh? Care to share?” Varric asked casually. There was something about Varric, a sort of warmth and easy friendliness that disarmed Fenris’s caution and made him want to tell him everything. He wanted to talk about what led him to Kirkwall, why he was leaving, why the Knight Commander’s offer was just too good to refuse. Fenris wanted to talk, but he had never spoken of his past. 

”Just tracking a criminal.” Fenris lied. “The trail went cold, and they may be hiding in the woods at the base of Sundermount..” 

”Huh. Got a few friends in the area. If you get caught by the Dalish up in the area, Clan Sabrae, tell their First you’re a pal of mine. She’ll help you out.” Varric offered, and Fenris was surprised and touched by the dwarf’s friendship. 

”Thank you, Varric. I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Fenris said as he pocketed the potions in a saddlebag. He stood there in the morning sun, a light breeze ruffling his hair, and he did not know what to say. What did you tell someone who was the closest thing to a friend you had ever had? 

”I… take care, Varric.” Fenris muttered, and Varric chuckled. 

”You take care too, Fenris.” Varric said fondly. “Don’t get lost in those woods.” 

”And if you get caught by bandits, remind them of your _dearest_ friend Captain Isabela.” A woman crooned. Her voice was rough and sultry in his ear. A strong arm wrapped around Fenris’s shoulders. He did not flinch from the touch, though. It was familiar, and somewhat welcome. 

“Though you’re leaving far too soon, Fenris. I’ve only just sailed into port!” The woman continued, complaining loudly as she pulled Fenris into her embrace. 

”Isabela.” Fenris greeted the woman. “Varric said you sailed in yesterday.” 

”Two days ago, technically, but still!” Isabela’s lower lip wobbled in a mock pout. A pretty pout. Isabela was a beautiful woman, and Fenris often wondered why a woman like Isabela tried to bring someone like him into her bed. Perhaps it was a thirst for variety that drove her to pursue him, Fenris decided. That was the only thing that made any sense. 

”Thought you were an admiral.” Varric remarked. “Good to see you, Isabela.” 

”The admiral cap needs repairing. Captain for the moment.” Isabela said airly. “But what’s all this about Fenris leaving before I’ve had a chance to charm him into bed with me?” She was joking, as she always did, and Fenris shrugged out of her embrace. 

”Enough, Isabela.” Fenris warned, and Isabela stepped back. “I will return in a month, either for more supplies or because the job is done.” 

Varric whistled, a low, surprised sound (if a whistle could sound surprised). “Serious work, then.” 

”Yes. Goodbye Varric. Isabela.” Fenris said. 

”Bye, Broody. Don’t be a stranger!” Varric called out as Fenris retreated, leading his horse through the plaza and down to the city gates. He waved a hand at them before petting his horse’s neck. 

”I hate for you to leave, but I love to watch you walk away.” Isabela purred, her golden eyes glittering. Varric snorted and sorted his collection of healing potions. 

”Think he’ll run into anyone?” Varric asked, and there was a certain emphasis on the last word that told Isabela he was referring to a particular person instead of a vague possibility of finding a random stranger in the woods. 

”I doubt it.” Isabela replied, folding her arms under her bosom and surveying the crowd milling about the plaza. “Fenris leaves people alone, and they’ll leave him alone. He’ll be fine.” 

”If you say so.” Varric said, his voice tinged with doubt. Fenris walked, and the townspeople whispered in his wake. Where would the elf go? Was the handsome elf leaving for good? He never left with a horse before. A shame, truly a shame, but he never fit into Kirkwall anyhow. Too quiet, too sullen, too grim, too drunk to find a place in the city. So the people sighed and shook their heads, and went on with their work and wondered if they would ever see the elf with the pale hair and beautiful eyes again. 

Fenris stood at the gate with the horse as a Templar with golden curly hair looked over a map. No one else was present. The North Gate faced the woods, and few people ventured through the woods when sea travel was a safer, faster, more reliable mode of travel. 

”The information we gathered indicate the apostate is located in this area.” The Templar stated, circling an area the size of a sovereign on the map. “They would be hidden, either moving from place to place on the mountain or living in a difficult to reach area within it.” 

”What am I dealing with, exactly?” Fenris asked. He looked at the area the Templar indicated on the map, a small valley set between two smaller mountains that formed part of Sundermount’s ridge. 

”Apostate. Rogue mage on the loose without Chantry or Templar oversight.” The Templar replied. “There aren’t any reports of demons or blood magic, but exercise caution. Any mage can turn dangerous when cornered.” 

”I am aware.” Fenris said. Mages were always dangerous, he thought as he stared at the back of his hand and his many, many scars. Mages were always dangerous. 

”Don’t engage the mage when you find them. Report back to the Knight Commander.” The Templar ordered as he handed the rolled up map to Fenris. Fenris took it and mounted the horse. 

”Understood. I will return in a month.” Fenris replied, and as the gates opened he nudged the horse forward and headed out into the woods. The city rose up behind him, and before him lay the unknown. 

-

The woods were dark and crowded. Underbrush scratched at Fenris’s legs as he navigated the dirt trails that disappeared into the trees. Birdsong echoed through the forest, and only a few weak sunbeams cut through the shadows. The forest had been less dense near Kirkwall, but it became overgrown and old the further he went into the woods. Fenris spent the day riding through the woods, and made camp on the edge of a stream. He ate a hunk of bread and salted beef, and he washed it down with water from his canteen. Then he woke up at dawn and began to travel again down the ever disappearing road. 

”The map indicates that the valley should be right ahead.” Fenris said to the horse, who patiently plodded down the road. “We will make camp after we find the entrance.” The horse snorted, and one of her ears twitched. Fenris wondered if it was loneliness or anxiety that drove him to speak to his horse as if it were able to reply. 

”You will need a name, horse.” Fenris added, mostly to cut through the silence. The horse’s original name was Snowball, an affectionate nickname the farmer he bought her from gave her. As round as a snowball and getting as white as fresh snow, he had said. Fenris thought it was a silly name. But thinking about the horse and a possible name distracted Fenris from the forest and dark. Was it getting darker? It seemed like it was getting darker. But it had to be mid afternoon at the latest. Fenris knew he started traveling when the sun was barely rising. How much time had he lost in this forest? As he pondered the possibility that he had lost track of time, the wind started to how, the heavens opened up, and it started to rain. 

”Fasta vass!” Fenris hissed, and he urged the horse to go faster. They must get out of this rain, this cold. The elements could be a greater killer than any mage. The trail was slippery with mud, and water ran in rivulets down his face as he rode through the forest. The underbrush was so thick and the trees so full that he could barely see ten meters in front of him. 

He stumbled upon the iron gates by accident. At first he thought they were an overgrown hedge, but iron spikes stuck out of the ivy that was choking it. It was too tall to jump, though Fenris doubted the horse could jump. Fenris stared out past the gates, peering through the ivy to see what lay beyond the fence. The rain and fog made it impossible to see far, but Fenris could make out the broken remains of a stone road leading to a massive black shape. He could not see more, though, and now he was left with a choice: explore further, or turn back? Thunder boomed, the sound roaring through the clearing. It seemed there was only one reasonable choice. Fenris slipped off the saddle and made his way to the gate. It was mostly rusted shut, but Fenris braced his shoulder against the rusted metal and leaves and pushed. After a moment where Fenris wondered if the gate would hold, it shuddered open with a shriek of metal on metal. 

Urging the horse through the gates was a harder task than Fenris anticipated. She dug her hooves into the mud and would not budge until Fenris climbed back into the saddle and urged her forward. Even then she seemed anxious, and it was rubbing off on Fenris. Every noise, every sight, every rustling bush and crack of lightning turned into something frightening in his mind. The black shape in the distance grew larger, solidified, took a shape as it loomed above him- 

”A tower?” Fenris muttered to himself. “All the way out here?” But as impossible as it was, there it stood: a gray stone tower, attached to stone manor house. Even in the rain, Fenris saw the beginnings of a garden behind one of the stone buildings, and vines cut through the gray coldness of the stone. A vine with large, pale pink flowers sheltered the doorway, softening the stone. 

He rode into the courtyard and gawked at the manor. How could this have remained hidden for so long? The gate was rusted and ivy had grown over most of it, but the manor itself was practically pristine. Fenris doubted that such an odd place could go unnoticed for so long, unless… unless… 

”Unless those who enter do not leave.” Fenris whispered, staring up into the dark windows of the manor. But either he could stay out in the rain, or he could find a place to bunk for the night before moving on. The place reeked of magic, from the suspiciously clean windows to the flowers blooming out of season. Magic. It had to be magic. But he couldn’t stay out here in the dark and the rain. He approached the manor, and spied a building that looked like the stables. 

”Might as well see if it’s stocked.” Fenris murmured, and he lead the horse to shelter. It was a stable, and Fenris was surprised to find a stall stocked with fresh, sweet smelling hay spread across the floor and oats in the feed bag. There was even cool water in the trough, and Fenris wondered how it got there when there were no people running around. Maybe they were inside, where any reasonable person would be if they were caught in a furious rainstorm. Fenris removed the horse’s saddle from her back and brushed her coat. The horse stuck her head into the feed bag and was chomping on oats. 

”I should investigate the house.” Fenris told the horse. “Stay here.” He might have berated himself for divulging his plans to a horse, but this manor made him uneasy. Why was there only one stall prepared for him? If all of them were ready, or none of them were, it would be less alarming. But just one suggested that someone knew of his coming here. And the only way that could be possible was if there was a spy in the forest. But Fenris would have known if he was being watched, wouldn’t he? He shivered. The windows in the manor looked like eyes, soulless and searching, ready to gobble up any who dared cross the threshold- 

”Enough of this!” Fenris snapped, and he shut the stable door. The horse would be safe for the night, Fenris assured himself, and he had his sword. He could defend himself well enough if this was a trap. He would only stay the night, and then be on his way. He hurried across the courtyard and lingered under the blooming vine at the doorway, the scent of the flowers cloyingly sweet in the air. He placed his hand against the wood door and pushed. It gave under his hand, opening inward, and Fenris stumbled into the foyer. 

It was dark inside, but clean. Unusually clean. The marble floors gleamed in the light of a single candle. Fenris stood in the doorway, dripping a puddle on those perfectly clean floors, and he wondered who lit the candle, and who left it on the hallway table. 

”Hello?” Fenris called out into the darkness. “I do not mean to intrude, but there is a storm. May I find shelter here for the night?” Manners, he reminded himself. He had to be polite. Varric and Isabela found his abruptness amusing, but others would find his roughness rude, and he had to be polite. He was sheltering his horse in this manor’s stable, after all. But there was no response beyond the flickering of the candle flame. 

”Is anyone there?” Fenris asked. No one replied, but after a moment there was a sound off to his left. Fenris whirled around and held the candle up so he could see. A door had opened, at the room beyond it was lit. Fenris warily approached, one hand holding the candle and the other grasped around the hilt of his sword. Something was strange about this manor, and it reeked of magic. It was not the bitter tang of blood magic, but there was some sort of magic. It had not harmed him, but he was worried nevertheless. 

The room beyond was some sort of parlor. A fire roared in the fireplace, and a card table was set up in front of the fireplace, and it was covered in food. Fresh food. Steam wafted off the fresh loaf of bread. There was some sort of stew in the bowl, and someone had poured red wine into a crystal goblet. Fenris cautiously walked up to the table in front of him. There was a full dinner set at the table, silverware brightly polished, from soup spoon to dessert fork to the two pronged butter pick next to the butter dish. But it was set for only one. 

”Is this for me?” Fenris asked the room, and though there was no verbal response the silverware glittered even brighter in the light. Or perhaps it was his imagination. Fenris shook his head. Nonsense. He was imagining things. He took his seat and raised the wine glass. 

”I suppose I should toast my host.” Fenris addressed the room and the empty space before him, and he only felt slightly ridiculous. “Thank you for the food and shelter.” He dug into the meal before him, a vegetable stew and crusty bread. It was delicious, and the wine was richly flavored. Soon the food was gone, and only the smell lingered in the air. He poured himself another glass of wine, and once that was drained he poured again, and again, and once more until the bottle was drained and his eyelids were drooping. Warm and now fed, the crackling of the fire and the wine lulled him into a sense of security. So the manor was strange, and the feeling of magic still crackled on his skin, but it was pleasant here. But his scars still ached, and even in this place he could feel the uneasy that always heralded another restless night. 

”Perhaps another drink.” Fenris murmured, and he hoisted himself out of the chair. There had to be a wine cellar somewhere. He took a candle and stumbled out of the parlor, his feet leading him down a hall into the kitchen. He found a set of stairs in the corner leading down into a cellar, and Fenris stepped down into the dark. He found himself among casks and racks of bottles, and he carefully went through the bottles until he found one with familiar markings. He tugged out the cork and began to drink. Just one more drink, he told himself. One more drink, and he would return upstairs and find a room to sleep in. Just one more drink. 

He woke with a pounding headache and stale wine staining his mouth. It was dark in the cellar, the candle having burnt itself out in the night. But there was a light at the top of the stairs, and Fenris lifted his head and _stared_ at the person looming in the doorway. 

”Well, aren’t you terribly rude!” A man declared. “Sneaking about my home and drinking my wine, then falling asleep in my wine cellar! Didn’t anyone teach you any manners?” The owner of the voice descended the cellar stairs, and Fenris gaped at the figure before him. 

It was a creature unlike any Fenris had ever beheld. He stood like a man, towering over him on two hind legs. Legs shaped like a dog’s legs, and covered in short golden fur. A long tail twitched back and forth behind the beast, and Fenris lifted his eyes past those legs covered in torn breeches, observed a broad, furry chest, took note of giant paws that ended in long claws, up, up, up until he beheld a creature with the face of a great lion and the horns of a stag. No creature existed like this naturally. This had to be the work of magic, powerful magic. Fenris could only stare into golden brown eyes, a man’s eyes, as pity swelled in his heart. Whoever this man once was, magic had transformed him into a horrible beast.

Fenris had traveled across the sea and through a dark forest only to find someone who had suffered under magic as much as he had. 

”Oh, please, just go on staring!” The lion creature snorted. “Shall I pose for a portrait? Or perhaps I’ll commission a statue, I’m sure it would be a better conversationalist than you.” The lion turned to head up the cellar stairs again, but he glanced back towards Fenris and sighed. 

”You might as well get up and sleep in the guest bedroom.” The lion groused. “Spent all that time preparing a bed, took all the extra effort not to tear up the sheets, and he goes and sleeps in the cellar!” 

The lion continued to grumble and complain, his voice floating somewhere above Fenris as he stood up and followed the beast up the stairs into the light and warmth of the kitchen above.


	2. Twist In The Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders muses on his latest guest in the manor.

The spirits were the ones who told him he had a guest approaching the manor from the city. From _Kirkwall_. Naturally Anders assumed it was Varric. Who else would travel from Kirkwall to visit him? Who else would ride in from that cursed city in such terrible weather? The rain started during the fuzzy grey light of dawn, and it showed no signs of stopping. So Anders prepared to receive his future grumpy visitor. He cleaned out a stall for Varric’s horse, the rake as fragile as a twig in his paws. He scattered straw on the floor of the stall and filled the feedbag with fresh oats. The spirits prepared the meal, as they always did when he had company. Anders recommended they make something warm like stew, but the spirits did what they willed. He was shooed out of his own kitchen by many spirit hands. With nothing else to do, Anders was left to prepare a bedchamber for Varric. He picked the one closest to the library. Varric always liked to sneak in to use the desk and write his own manuscripts, making liberal use of the fine parchment and the wide variety of ink available. Anders took his time making the bed, delicately folding sheets and draping quilts over the feather mattress until it was cozy and perfect, a warm retreat for a cold evening. He even found a footstool for Varric to step on so he could climb into bed without any extra awkwardness. 

He wouldn’t break bread with Varric tonight. Anders rarely took his meals with his guests, even his closest friends. It was entirely too disgusting. His paws couldn’t hold the silverware the way hands could, and food kept getting stuck in his fur no matter how careful he was. He had years to get used to this form, but he still had trouble adjusting his habits to suit his shape. But still, it would be nice to spend time with a friend. It grew lonely in this manor, talking only to spirit wisps and the gathering dust. 

But the person who rode into the courtyard was not Varric. It wasn’t Isabela, full of tales from across distant lands. Nor was it Hawke, fresh from another mercenary job and eager to share in conversation. It certainly wasn’t Merrill, who was busy with her clan. It wasn’t that little hedgewitch who occasionally helped him collect herbs for his potions in exchange for the nettles that ran wild in the older parts of the garden. It was someone he had never seen before, riding in on a horse who was equally unfamiliar. Anders lingered by his window in the north tower, and he watched the lanky figure dismount and lead their horse to the stable, dark cloak obscuring their features and gender. He waved a paw in the air to summon a spirit and ask for its aid. A spirit of wisdom popped out of the Fade and hovered near the door. 

”Who is our visitor? Do you have any ideas?” Anders asked. Spirits of wisdom were notoriously curious, and notoriously open mouthed. They loved to speak and learn and exchange information, and Anders needed counsel. 

”My brethren spied him in the forest, an elf from the city, not the clan.” The spirit informed Anders. As the spirit spoke it fed Anders images of the elf: vague images, but enough for Anders to see a great sword, armor, and the stance of a practiced fighter. A warrior then, possibly a mercenary. That could be dangerous. 

Not always dangerous, an irritating voice, his own conscious, piped up. Some of his greatest friends were warriors who stopped by the manor for the night. They were just lost souls looking for shelter and, well, it wasn’t as if Anders could use all the rooms in this manor for himself. He was more than what others expected. He was not a monster, he was a mage and a good man. Good men did not leave people out in the cold. 

”We’ll let them in then.” Anders said reluctantly. “No one should be left out in this cold and wet if it can be helped.” But the spirit had faded away before he finished his remark, probably off to stoke the fire and plump some pillows before it spied on their visitor again. Spirits, in Anders’s experience, were the worst sort of busybodies. 

”An elf.” Anders murmured. A city elf, too. What business did a city elf from Kirkwall have in his woods, his valley? No one came here unless they knew of the manor. The roads were well hidden, and the spirits enjoyed tricking people, leading them on merry chases through the woods and far away from the manor grounds. It was a rare person to pass the spirits’ vetting, though Anders could never quite figure out what the spirits were looking for when they decided who could and who could not pass through the woods. Whatever it was, it was clear that this mystery elf had whatever it was. 

”Might as well see that they are made comfortable.” Anders told himself. He went down the tower, taking the stairs two at a time with his long, long legs. It was one of the few advantages of this monstrous shape, Anders thought as he walked. He was far bigger and more agile than he ever was as a human. He looked like a cat, and he supposed if he had to take the form of a monstrous beast looking slightly feline was not the worst punishment he could endure. He forced himself through a small door and crawled through a secret hallway so he could observe the foyer in secret from up above. He looked down on the entryway, waiting for this mysterious elf to arrive. A spirit left a candle lit for the visitor on the front table, and belatedly Anders wondered if this would alarm his guest. Hawke had once told him that having spirits sweep past him in the hallway carrying linen and walking into the kitchen to see a meal being prepared without any chefs doing the cooking was alarming to say the least. Anders had not realized that the spirits’ daily tasks would frighten visitors. He had grown numb to the surprise of floating cutlery and whispered snatches of conversation after a year. After five years it was as exciting as the apple green wallpaper in the drawing room. The spirits simply _were_ , and nothing about them frightened Anders anymore. 

But it would be nice to talk to someone again, Anders thought wistfully as he waited for his guest to show themselves. When was the last time Varric visited? A fortnight, at least, and Anders gave the dwarf a full month’s supply of healing potions to sell in the city. Anders only wanted to give them out to the needy in Kirkwall, but Varric convinced him to sell them and split the profits. Anders hesitantly agreed because Varric was cunning and a smooth talker. Now the gold he earned languished untouched in a small room off his bed chamber. It wasn’t as if he could _use_ it. What sort of business took money from a hairy beast? Besides, the manor and the spirits provided everything he needed. He didn’t need anyone else. 

Well, he mostly didn’t need anyone else. Varric was an exception, much like Hawke or Isabela or Merrill were exceptions. Anders wondered what had convinced the dwarf that Anders wasn’t what he appeared. He wondered what convinced anyone who encountered him to not run screaming in terror. He suspected that the spirits knew who would and wouldn’t run. It made as much sense as anything else in his life since he was turned into a… well… a whatever he was. 

”Andraste’s Tits, Anders, don’t mope.” Anders ordered himself. There was no use crying over the past, and living in a magical manor house was better than scraping by in the wild or staying locked up in a Templar prison. At least here he could live in peace, even if peace was sometimes boring. As Anders pondered over the merits of peaceful boredom, the front door slowly creaked open and the elf, still cloaked, entered. They shut the door behind them and stepped forward, closer to the candlelight. Rainwater dripped off the edges of their cloak and puddles on the marble floor, and the stranger lifted the hood off their head. Anders nearly gasped. 

The stranger was _beautiful_. 

His hair was as white as freshly fallen snow. Anders remembered the first time he saw snow dusting the ground outside his family farm in Ferelden, so clean and soft and perfect. This man’s hair parted to reveal two long, pointed ears. Elf ears. Well, the spirits had said his visitor was an elf. Anders leaned forward, eager to catch a better glimpse of the man’s face, but he could not see more than a strong profile and skin as smooth and warm as the polished amber paperweight in the library. 

”Is anyone there?” The elf called out. His voice was rich and echoed through the hall. Anders shivered. He wondered if it was because he had gone so long without hearing another voice. The spirits in the manor rarely spoke to him, preferring to share their thoughts through images rather than words. And his corporeal guests were few and far between. Varric had his business matters to attend to, Hawke was always off on an adventure, Isabela sailed around the world, Merrill was often occupied with her clan, and the hedgewitch never spoke, only smiled and gathered her nettles. He was just excited to hear another voice again, Anders assured himself. He was lonely. That was all. As the elf moved into the next room and into the light, Anders saw more of the stranger’s face. It was the sort of face that writers waxed poetic about, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose and a proud chin, with thick, dark eyebrows that swooped in harsh angles over his eyes. 

And what a set of eyes, Anders thought wistfully as the man disappeared into the room beyond. It was dark in the hall, but the light of the candle and fire and Anders’s beast eyes let him see the man’s eyes, large and long lashed with bright green irises. Anders knew those eyes would haunt his dreams tonight. Anders slunk as close as he dared to the parlor, lurking outside the firelight so he could watch and listen to his guest. 

The elf sat down to the table the spirits prepared, and after asking if it was for him he poured a glass of wine and lifted the goblet up to the empty seat in front of him. The seat Anders would have taken if his guest was someone he knew. 

”I suppose I should thank my host.” The elf said, his voice as clear as a Chantry bell. “Thank you for the food and shelter.” He took a sip of the wine and dug into his meal, and Anders felt his lips curl into a pleased smile. Even with the extra long fangs scraping against his mouth he felt he was happier than he had been in years. Even Hawke, as accepting and non-judgemental as he was, had reacted with fear when he encountered the work of the spirits in the manor and even him. Anders straightened up and snuck away from the doorway. Perhaps he could start the fire in his guest’s room. It was a chilly, rainy night, and his guest should be as comfortable as possible. He would probably leave in the morning, Anders reasoned, and there was no need to alarm him by introducing himself. He would let the man rest and recover, and he would hold the memory of his handsome, polite guest with the beautiful eyes close to his heart. 

Anders occupied himself with caring for the fire, then returned to his own tower chambers to rest. When dawn arrived Anders crawled out of his bed to prepare for the day. He padded out into the courtyard to see to his guest’s horse. The mare was frightened of him at first, but was easily soothed by a soft voice, a gentle touch, and a few carrots. Once the horse was fed and groomed, Anders hurried back to the manor. Was his guest already up? Should he say hello? He had left his guest alone, trusting the spirits to guide him to the guest bedroom. Perhaps seeing a person, or something resembling a person, would be welcome? Or perhaps not. Anders pondered what to do when a passing spirit of compassion whisked by him and fed images in his mind, images of the elf in the cellar, cold and passed out- Maker! Did he fall down the stairs? Anders hurried to the kitchens and flung the cellar door open. 

Instead of some horrible scene, Anders found the elf passed out in the middle of the cellar, surrounded by three empty bottles of wine. The elf was snoring peacefully, his fingers twitching slightly as if in response to a pleasant dream, just like a mabari did in the depths of slumber. So this was where he was? He spent all that time fixing up a room, spent so much time worrying over frightening his guest, and his guest had gone to the cellar to drink his wine and sleep. Ignoring the little voice in his head that reminded him that he hardly ever drank in the first place, Anders addressed the elf loudly, startling him to wakefulness. 

Anders expected screaming. He expected the elf to throw a bottle or two. But either the man was far more inebriated than Anders first thought, or he was simply unfazed. But when he looked down into those great green eyes he saw no confusion. Sympathy, pity, perhaps a little shock, but no confusion and no fear. Anders found it unsettling. People ran screaming in terror when they saw him. That was how this curse worked. Even his friends had reacted with surprise when they first met him. Hawke screamed in alarm and drew a knife from his side when he first met Anders. Isabela had nearly bashed his head in with a candelabra. Merrill shrieked and jumped up on a table, her hands set for casting spells when Anders dared to approach her. Varric sat back in his chair and set an arrow in his crossbow before casually asking if he was going to be killed and eaten. Even the mute hedgewitch trembled in fear when he first revealed himself and asked why she was stealing nettles from his garden. They were all good friends now, but the point was that Anders was an alarming sight that set fear into the hearts of all who beheld him. Those who could look past the beastly form were few and far between. 

But those few did exist. 

Anders could barely remember what he had said. His irritation and tendency to ramble took over, and he simply spoke his mind without any thought of the consequences. So he walked through the halls, his guest following closely behind, and all the while he scolded himself for his hastily spoken words. 

That’s how you ended up like this in the first place, Anders thought as he walked. He spoke his mind and rambled and annoyed everyone around him with his speech. He couldn’t even introduce himself without being a chattering fool. 

Should he apologize? Maker, he should apologize. But would that be awkward? He had been silent for so long now, and the elf hadn’t said anything. Andraste’s Tits, why wouldn’t he say anything? 

Anders glanced back at the elf, who was following him and _staring_ up at him. There was no revulsion in his expression, but his eyes were curious. Say something, say something, say _anything_ and try to stop this awkwardness! 

”I think you’ll rest better in a bed.” Anders finally said. “A floor isn’t the most comfortable place to fall asleep, you know.” He had slept on enough cold stone floors to last a lifetime, and he wished he hadn’t allowed a guest to subject themselves to that misery. He should have had a spirit check on the man, or checked himself. Guilt wormed into his heart as he took note of the dark circles under the elf’s eyes. He was a chatterbox and a terrible host. 

”You seem to think it was a deliberate decision on my part.” The elf retorted. “I passed out.” 

”I’m sorry.” Anders murmured. “I behaved abominably towards you. I should have seen to your comfort, not gotten angry over some bottles of wine. It’s not like I can drink it anyhow.” 

”You… you don’t drink?” The elf asked. Anders snorted and held one massive paw up to the daylight. He twiddled the digits of his paw to demonstrate his lack of mobility. 

”These are a little big for the delicate work of opening bottles. I’m not that fond of wine anyhow. Makes my head ache something fierce.” Anders pushed the guest room door open and gestured inside. One of the spirits doused the fire during the night and had drawn the forest green curtains open. Warm autumn sunshine poured into the room, resting on the bed and the quilt Anders had so carefully picked out. 

”I see.” The elf replied. He stared at the room with a wary sort of surprise, as if he couldn’t quite understand what was in front of him. “This is a pleasant room.” 

”Glad you think so.” Anders said. “Well, you go ahead and sleep. One of the spirits can deliver food if you need, and your horse will be well taken care of.” 

”Excuse me?” 

”You’re a guest in my home, and I was a poor host. You should stay until you’re well rested.” Anders drew the curtains shut and turned to the fireplace. “It’s a bit chilly outside. I’ll start a fire for you.” 

”How can you be so welcoming? I am a stranger in your home.” The elf spoke slowly, as if he thought Anders’s mind was addled. 

”A rather polite stranger. Most run screaming at the sight of me. They must not be cat people.” Anders quipped. He knelt down next to the fireplace and set up a small cone of kindling wood. Start small and get a flame going, then set up the heavier wood. Nearly two decades later, and he still remembered those winter nights spent around the hearth, his mother humming lullabies from the old country. 

”I could rob you blind.” The elf said, his deep voice cutting through the mist of memories. 

”Silver is down in the walnut cabinet in parlor.” Anders retorted. “Crystal doesn’t travel as well as cutlery, so I can’t let you have the goblets, I’m afraid.” 

”Ah.” The elf was silent for a moment, then added, “You do not seem alarmed by the prospect of my being a thief.” 

”You don’t seem to be much of a thief, Messere Overcompensation.” Anders replied, snapping a small branch in his paws and setting the pieces into the cone. “Unless it’s thieving custom to toast your victims before you steal from them.” And instead of being insulted, or rolling his eyes, or calling Anders any number of names, the elf tilted his head back and _laughed_. It was more of a low chuckle than a hearty rumble, but it was still a clear laugh and it was beautiful. 

”I am no thief. You were right.” The elf finally said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was even more handsome when he was smiling, Anders realized as his heart fluttered somewhere around his throat. 

”Of course I was right. No thief carries a giant broadsword on their back, it’s not very inconspicuous.” Anders stammered before returning his attention to the fire. It was almost ready, and Anders felt his magic waking up to set of the much needed spark to let the fire blaze brightly in the hearth. 

”I’m a mercenary.” The elf continued to speak. “The Templar Commander in Kirkwall hired me to scout out the forest and find evidence of magic and apostates.” 

Templars. The spark Anders cradled in his paw died at the word, and his blood ran cold as the elf spoke. 

”Magic?” Anders managed to squeak out as he turned around to face his guest and hunter. The elf looked at him, but instead of cold triumph or smugness there was only a gentle sort of sympathy in his expression. He approached the fireplace and kneeled down next to him. 

”I’m sorry, I should have realized that it would be difficult to light a fire when your hands are so large. The sparks must singe your fur as well.” The elf said, and he reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out two pieces of flint. He struck them and set a spark going while Anders sat numb next to him. 

”I have also suffered under the tyranny of magic.” The elf murmured, and he gestured to the scars that adorned his chin and danced down his arms and hands. Swirling, beautiful curling scars, but strange ones. Enchanted ones. Anders felt the magic swimming in them. How had he missed it? 

”Also?” Anders repeated numbly, and his voice sounded as if it came from miles away. 

”I was a mage’s plaything, his puppet to toy with as he willed. You were cursed by magic as well. We’re alike, you and I.” The beautiful elf returned his attentions to the fire and threw a log on top of the merry blaze. 

Not cursed by magic, Anders thought mournfully, but _with_ it. But how could he dare tell the truth to the elf now? He would leave and return with an army of bloodthirsty Templars and Chantry sisters, and this forest would never know peace until he was dragged out and hanged for existing. But he couldn’t lie. 

”I am cursed.” Anders agreed. “It isn’t a great burden, you know. I like being alone. It’s nice here.” Living in these woods alone as a beast was a million times better than living in a Circle as a human surrounded by Templars. He liked it here. He was used to loneliness. But the elf was a welcome presence at his side. 

”You are an optimist.” The elf replied. “It does not mean you do not suffer.” 

”I wouldn’t call living in a private mansion suffering.” Anders muttered. The elf shrugged. 

”Call it what you will. I merely tell you what I see.” The elf said patiently. “What is your name?” 

”My name?” Anders repeated the question. 

”All people have names, no matter if they are elf or dwarf or man.” The elf said. “I would like to know yours.” 

”I am… my name is Anders.” Anders said. 

”Anders? But isn’t that what you call the people who live in the Anderfels?” The elf sounded confused, but curious. Anders sat back on his haunches and glanced over at the elf. His green eyes were alight with curiosity, but it didn’t seem like the morbid curiosity of someone who wanted to stare at him like he was a bound creature paraded about for the entertainment of the public. It seemed warm, and kind, and welcoming. 

”No one could pronounce my name in the- that is, where I came from.” Anders said hastily. “After a while I just gave up. Everyone called me ‘That Anders Boy,’ so I became Anders.” It wasn’t a lie. He just omitted the _where_. No one needed to know that Anders was jailed in a Circle since he was twelve summers, especially this elven mercenary who hated magic. But the elf seemed satisfied with the answer Anders provided. 

”I am called Fenris. My name was taken from me.” The elf, Fenris, said. 

”Taken?” Anders repeated. How could a name be taken from someone? 

”Slaves do not have names in Tevinter.” Fenris explained, and that short sentence told Anders everything he needed to know. What person wouldn’t hate magic when all they had ever known of the craft was torture at the hands of the blood mages of Tevinter? Even though Anders had never given into the tempting power of blood magic, he felt guilt swim in his belly at the thought of what Fenris must have endured. Blood magic was _painful_ and, as Merrill constantly warned him, easy to lose control of. To live under the rule of blood magic, to have been scarred by it and shaped by it, it could not have been an easy or pleasant life. 

”How did you escape?” Anders asked softly. Fenris merely shrugged, but his eyes never left the flames dancing in the hearth. 

”I took a chance and ran. I’ve been running ever since.” He replied. It was obviously a conversation Fenris didn’t want to have, and it was a conversation Anders was eager to avoid. 

”Does your former master- that mage-” Anders could hardly say the words. Stories of Tevinter were rare in the Circle. The Templars were too afraid that the mages under their supervision would take inspiration from that land and use blood magic to lord over them all. Most mages feared the possibility of death or Tranquility to even attempt blood magic. Anders never felt the urge to take a knife and use his blood for power or to summon demons. The cost was far too high. But he heard stories of Tevinter, stories whispered in the dark of night to apprentices as Templars stood guard outside their dormitories. They were tales from a hot land, a strange land, a land of decadence and danger. 

”Magister.” Fenris corrected. 

”Does he still hunt you?” Anders asked. 

”Yes.” Fenris’s eyes turned cold and distant as his voice grew bitter. “I do not approve of the Templar order in Kirkwall. They are too eager to justify their force, and their Commander stabs at shadows. But she would fight to keep a magister out of the city.” Fenris grew silent, but Anders knew what words filled that silence. 

If all Fenris knew was blood magic and slavery, how could he know anything else? Of course he would hate mages and magic. Of course he would assume Anders’s appearance was a curse, not a blessing in disguise. Of course magic would be evil in Fenris’s mind, and it was natural to align himself with others who hated magic. Others who would keep him safe from a bloodthirsty magister bent on enslaving him. 

Anders wished he could show that magic wasn’t what Fenris thought. He didn’t want to be dragged in chains in front of Kirkwall’s Templars. He heard enough rumors about their Knight Commander from Varric, and he knew the woman would never be satisfied until the entire forest had been rid of magic. She would never let Fenris rest. But Anders had no right to try and change a total stranger’s mind about magic when that stranger had been enslaved by it. Best to just let the matter lie, Anders decided. Fenris would leave soon enough, and Anders should really mind his own business. 

”I suppose I should let you rest, Fenris.” Anders murmured as he stood up. 

”I suppose that would be for the best, Anders.” Fenris replied. “May I join you for a meal later?” 

”If you want to.” Anders said. “If you need anything, the spirits will attend to it. I think they get bored without someone to fuss over, and they’re all used to me by now.” Anders edged his way out of the room. The last thing he saw before the door closed were Fenris’s brilliant green eyes looking back at him. 

Once the door was shut, Anders breathed a sigh of relief and retreated back to his tower. Conversations shouldn’t be so frightening! He still felt his heart pounding in his chest. He was certain that Fenris had known who he was, _what_ he was, and he had come to claim his reward by bringing Anders in. But he hadn’t. He had been sympathetic. He had cared for Anders. He showed compassion instead of fear. And Anders didn’t want to suffer through more fear. Fenris’s understanding was such a welcome change. He wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could. 

He snapped his fingers, and a flame danced in the palm of his paw. He wouldn’t be able to convince Fenris that magic wasn’t a curse, Anders thought glumly. He wouldn’t be able to convince Fenris of anything. He closed his paw, snuffing the flame out. Magic was no curse to him. It gave him a sense of purpose in the world. And he could admit to himself that looking like a beast gave him an excuse to stay away from those people who would chain him up and send him back to the Circle. He was happy here, Anders told himself. He shouldn’t ask for more than he was given. 

So when he finally calmed himself and descended to the kitchen to retrieve some food, he was surprised to find Fenris there. He was sitting on a clean counter, turning a bright red apple over and over in his hands. He had changed out of his dark tunic and leggings and was wearing something the spirits must have dragged out of some wardrobe in the manor. Fenris’s tunic was of dark green wool, and the leggings were soft leather dyed black. His hair was brushed and hanging loose, a bright white waterfall cascading over his shoulders. He was like some beautiful painting brought to life, standing in the golden afternoon light with an apple in hand. 

”I thought you might come down here, Anders.” Fenris said politely. “I have a proposition for you.” 

”What sort of proposition?” Anders asked, distracted by Fenris’s beautiful eyes and captivated by his deep voice. Fenris hopped down from the counter where he was sitting and approached Anders. Even though the top of Fenris’s head only reached Anders’s chest, Anders still felt small in front of the elf. It was those eyes, Anders decided. Fenris had the eyes of a warrior. 

”You were cursed to take this form. To live in the skin of a lion-like beast.” Fenris said bluntly. “I will hunt down the mage who cursed you, and they will break the curse. Then I will take them to Kirkwall.” 

”They could easily curse you back.” Anders pointed out. Perhaps this would discourage lesser men, but Fenris’s eyes blazed with determination. He would not be so easily swayed. 

”I have hunted maleficar and blood mages before. I can defeat them.” Fenris assured him, and he touched Anders’s forearm. His broad, calloused hand rested on his golden fur, and Anders felt his face heat up. “I will break their hold on you.” 

”Why do you care?” Anders blurted out. No one had ever offered to break the curse before. Hawke had thought Anders was born as he was. Isabela freely said she had no idea how to break curses and it wasn’t her business anyhow. Varric offered to look into the matter, but found nothing. Merrill said nothing short of blood magic could undo the spells. And the hedgewitch only smiled and patted his paw sympathetically before gesturing to the nettles and her own blistered hands, indicating with the stormy look in her dark eyes that she had her own business to contend with. 

”Just, just why, Fenris? Why does this matter to you?” Anders asked. 

”Because no one should suffer as you and I have. Because I can defeat them. Because you are a good man and should not have to live as you do.” Fenris said, as if it were all so simple, as if everything was that simple. “Let me stay a month. I will help you break this curse.” 

And, Maker help him, Anders wanted to believe him. Fenris never had to learn about his magic. Fenris could stay for a month, find nothing, and go his merry way. The spirits would guide him out and he would find nothing. No evidence of mages or apostates or dark magic anywhere. He would leave. But first, he would stay. He would stay and keep Anders company, and Anders had been alone for so long. 

”Very well.” Anders sighed, giving into temptation. “You will find nothing, but I will let you stay.” He just had to be careful and not use his magic around Fenris. Fenris would fail to find a cure to break the curse, and nothing would come of it. Fenris would leave, and Anders would be alone again. But at least he would have company for some time. Fenris pulled out a knife hanging from his belt and carefully cut out a slice of apple, holding it out for Anders to take. Anders plucked the slice from Fenris’s fingers 

”Thank you.” Fenris said. “I swear to you, you will not regret this.” 

But oh, Anders thought woefully as he nibbled on the apple slice and Fenris contentedly sliced a chunk of apple for himself. Oh, he already knew that he was on the road to regret and heartbreak, but even now he could not persuade himself to turn back to his peace and solitude. Anders let himself fall into the warmth of companionship, however fleeting it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads my work! I hope that this chapter is satisfactory!


	3. Nettles and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris explores the gardens and finds more strangeness.

What surprised Fenris the most about Anders was his quiet. 

The man (and Fenris knew that even in a lion like shape, Anders was still a man) enjoyed talking. He chatted about the manor house, the spirits and their activity, asked Fenris about his days and his life in Kirkwall. He was loud and made his presence known in the manor. At first Fenris had thought it was simply Anders’s way. He was loud when silence was more appropriate. He made noise every time he walked through the hall, swishing his tail back and forth, muttering to himself, conversing with the spirits (who spoke in bell-like chimes that Fenris couldn’t hope to understand). Anders was simply _loud_. 

But he could also be very quiet. 

Fenris was in the stable, brushing the horse’s mane and wondering where he should first begin his search when a soft cough alerted him to Anders’s presence behind him. Fenris dropped the brush and nearly jumped out of his skin. 

”Fasta vass!” Fenris cursed, and he turned to stare up into Anders’s golden furred, cat like face. 

”Language!” Anders said, his voice mild and friendly. Warm. He held his paws up in a gesture of surrender as he stepped away. The horse whinnied and stomped her hooves, but settled down when Fenris stroked her neck. 

”You startled me.” Fenris accused Anders. 

”I didn’t mean it. I thought I would say good morning, as I missed you at breakfast.” Anders explained. He stood a respectful distance away from Fenris. He was very polite, and his manners only served to feed Fenris’s burning curiosity. Who was Anders, and how did he come to this place wearing this shape? 

“I was not hungry.” Fenris said lamely. “I did not realize you were waiting for me.” Fenris snuck out of the manor at dawn, only stopping at the kitchen to grab an apple to snack on. He had shared it with the horse. 

“I do not dine with my visitors.” Anders said as he approached the horse and carefully extended a massive paw out to pet the horse’s flanks. “My table manners leave much to be desired.” 

“But your manners in general are refined.” Fenris pointed out, for Anders was quiet and considerate and the horse was practically nuzzling the man. Feline. Beast. 

“I can be rude.” Anders said as he pet the horse with velvety paws, his claws trimmed and smoothed out with a file. “I have been told I am obnoxious and inconsiderate. Practically beastly.” 

“This is you on your best behavior, then?” Fenris asked, remembering Anders’s rambling rant that woke him up. It was a little rude, perhaps, but Fenris knew he would not have been so polite to a guest drinking up his wine. 

“Yes. Isolation tends to make me behave better.” Anders stepped away from the horse and smiled. He had many teeth. Sharp, clean teeth. Anders may take the form of a beast, Fenris thought, but he was fastidious about his appearance. His golden hair gleamed in the autumn morning light. 

“Now, you said you were hunting a mage?” Anders asked politely. Something in his voice was distant, but still polite. Still warm. 

“An apostate.” Fenris explained. “I do not think any would take shelter so close to Kirkwall, even in this forest. The Knight Commander is known for her… enthusiasm.” Rumors flew quickly when they needed to, and apostates avoided Kirkwall. The mages in the city were those locked away or those who managed to escape the walls of their Circle to hide in the sewers. Meredith took to her task of finding magic with great zeal. 

“It is an enthusiasm I have heard of, when travelers stay the night.” Anders snorted. “I hear she has her men hunt down the poor and desperate when there aren’t enough mages to provide them sport.” Fenris could not deny these rumors, for he had seen Templars roaming around the poor sections of the city, bringing in the drunk and disorderly as well as the elves and the poor for crimes they did not commit. But Anders’s words tugged on his interest. Travelers came to this manor in the woods? How often? 

“You have had other visitors.” Fenris remembered Anders speaking of others, but it seemed strange that Anders and the manor could remain such a secret. Someone would have said something if they had come across an enchanted manor and the cursed man who dwelled within. But Fenris, who always listened to every rumor for basic survival, had never heard a word. 

“Some. A few mercenaries, a businessman, some Dalish clans. A pirate, when she was traveling by foot. And a few of my old friends from before, when they have the chance.” Anders said it lightly. “I was going to take a turn in my garden. Would you join me?” 

“Certainly.” Fenris said, and he told himself he would pry Anders for information, as much as he could gather. 

“So you have many visitors, Anders.” Fenris murmured as he walked alongside Anders and left the stables behind them. “Any mages?” 

“Only innocent ones. The Firsts and Keepers of the Dalish are always mages, and there have been many refugees passing through these woods.” Anders said sternly. “They never harmed me. Some even tried to help with my condition. It is difficult, though.” 

“Magic is not so easily commanded.” Fenris muttered. He remembered the dark, the pain, the way magic rushed in and out of his skin to form the patterns that spiraled up and down his body. Magic was dangerous. 

“Magic is as any tool.” Anders insisted. “I would not blame a sword for chopping off my arm, but instead blame the swordsman who did it.” They turned a corner in the garden, and they were surrounded by the last flowers of autumn, dahlias and late blooming roses, the last of the season. The path was overgrown with ivy, but Anders navigated it easily enough. His paws padded softly on the flagstone as he brushed by overhanging tree branches. It was beautiful, though Fenris had never been in a garden such as this before. 

“Magic is a dangerous tool, made more dangerous by the mage who wields it.” Fenris insisted. Anders sighed and shook his great shaggy head, but said no more on the subject. The silence was harsh between them as they walked down shaded paths, until Fenris found himself breaking it with a question. 

“You do not blame the mage who cursed you?” Fenris asked. Anders laughed, the sound somewhere between a growl and a man’s laugh. 

“Frankly, I deserved it.” Anders confessed. “I was annoying one of my companions and she had enough of my foolishness. In the end it was a blessing in disguise.” Anders was smiling, his golden eyes misty with memories and fondness. He touched a deep red rose with one finger, tracing the velvety petals with an extended claw. Fenris saw the sharpness of the claw, but he also saw the gentleness in the movement. The control. 

“I fail to see how your curse could be a blessing.” Fenris said. Anders was trapped in this place, a gilded cage. A prison. 

“No one can bother me here. I am alone, but I am left alone. The spirits keep the dangerous people away, and I can survive well enough with the few visitors I have.” Anders explained. “I can also see in the dark. Always wanted to do that.” 

“That is… something.” Fenris admitted. “I would be captured or dead without my sight. But I was not aware that magic could transform a man into… well. Into your shape.” Even his knowledge of Tevinter magic was useless in the face of something more like a fairy tale than reality. 

“I insulted one of my companions, a Dalish mage and a Warden. So she cast a spell to make me as the cats I love so much. It was supposed to be temporary, but as you see, this was the result.” Anders explained. He gestured at his massive body, his furry face, his fangs, the antlers on his head. “Not her best work, but Velanna never worked well when her temper took control.” 

“A Warden? Why were you in the company of a Warden?” Fenris asked. “And was she not punished for what she did?” 

“I was a Warden, before I became what I am.” Anders explained. “And the guilt was more than enough punishment. She visits sometimes and searches for a way to reverse her spell. So I do have friends, even in these woods.” 

A Warden? Fenris heard tales of the strength and bravery of Wardens, legendary warriors who fought against the armies of creatures of rotting flesh, cursed earth, and dark magic. To think that Anders, when he was a man, was a warrior of that caliber- it was awe inspiring. Fenris wished he could spar him, duel him, all to see what a Warden could do. It would have been impressive. 

“You would have more friends, if you were in your original shape.” Fenris suggested, but Anders only shrugged before ducking under a branch. 

“Perhaps. But the spirits keep me safe here. The only visitors I have are those who would keep my secret safe.” Anders said. “I will not betray them.” 

“Not even the mages.” Fenris pressed, his mind full of the ghosts of his past. Of the mages and magisters who were all too eager to twist and enslave him. 

“No one. No mages. Or elves, for that matter.” Anders hesitated in front of a crumbling statue of a bare breasted woman. “You’re safe here, Fenris. No one who would harm you would find this place.” 

“If you say so.” Fenris could not believe that a magister as driven and twisted as Danarius could be stopped by trees and overgrown trails. An ocean could not stop Danarius and his pursuit, what would trees do? 

“You doubt me.” Anders said. 

“There are few places where a magister cannot reach.” Fenris said, and he would have said more but he heard the sound of twigs snapping in the distance. He reached for the dagger at his waist and unsheathed it. Danger! There was danger! 

“Someone is in your garden.” Fenris murmured as he stalked quietly towards the noise. He kept himself in front of Anders as he moved towards the slight sounds of twigs breaking and leaves rustling. Animal? Thief? Apostate? Abomination? Fenris hurried along the path until he reached a clearing. 

The clearing was overrun with weeds and wildflowers, quite different from the maintained gardens of the manor. Low stone walls sat in one corner, outlining the remnants of what once was a small building. It was overrun with stinging nettles, now dry and ready for winter. A woman crouched over the nettles, three large baskets at her feet. She wore a floppy straw hat and thick leather gloves on her hands, and she was cutting down bunches of dried nettles with a small knife. Not an animal, but perhaps a thief. But who stole nettles? Fenris could not think of a good reason why someone would steal dead plants. 

“Ah.” Anders coughed behind him. “That would be my neighbor, Fenris.” 

The woman turned quickly, knife at the ready and dark eyes wide with fear. Her hat fell off her head and hung down her back with her wild dark hair. But when she saw Anders she smiled and lowered the knife, then gestured to the nettles, the basket, and herself. She looked somewhat sheepish, and Fenris was struck by how young the woman seemed. He put his knife back in its sheath, but kept a careful eye on her as Anders moved past him and towards the woman. 

“You know you don’t have to ask for the nettles.” Anders said kindly. “How are your hands? I have some ointment for the rashes, I know the nettles sting your skin.” The woman shook her head and gestured over to Fenris. Her dark eyes gleamed with questions, but she didn’t open her mouth to ask them. 

“Ah. This is my guest, Fenris. He’s looking into reports of an apostate wandering about the woods terrorizing people.” Anders said cheerfully, and the woman smiled. It was a forced smile, all tight at the corners of the mouth and with no humor in the eyes. Fenris felt the magic in her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, and he waited for the blow. He waited for the blood and the demons and the screaming. But it never came. 

“But I haven’t seen any dangerous maleficars or demons popping out of the ground, so I am sure it is but a fool’s errand.” Anders joked. “Let me know if you see any?” The woman nodded and returned her attention to the nettles, placing them down in her basket. Fenris wondered if Anders was mocking him, over exaggerating what he told him in confidence to entertain a stranger. A mage stranger. She certainly was an apostate, but… Fenris looked closely. In truth she looked like any simple farmer, pretty in an earthy way, freckles dotting the flat bridge of her nose and the hem of her dusty rose skirt covered in mud. No magister would be caught dead covered in mud. 

“I said I would look into it. I doubt there is any truth to the rumors.” Fenris said reluctantly. “I am sorry to interrupt your work. I do not sense the presence of demons here.” The stiffness in the woman’s shoulders eased and her expression relaxed. 

“Fenris, this is… well, she has never said her name. And she slapped my arm when I suggested Miss Collects Nettles, so…” Anders laughed. “She is a kind neighbor, though. Do you need help with the nettles?” The woman hesitated, then bashfully pantomimed carrying something heavy on her back. She then mimed drinking and eating, then gestured to Anders and, after a moment, to Fenris. 

“She’s offering food and drink if we help her carry her harvest back to her home.” Anders explained. “It’s only an hour’s walk away, and her tea is excellent. She has improved on her baking, as well. The tea cakes were only slightly burnt last time.” 

The woman wrinkled her nose at the remark, then returned to packing the nettles in her basket. Fenris watched the process while Anders spoke with his neighbor. The woman listened, nodding or shaking her head to Anders’s questions. Have you enough food to last the winter? Yes. Any trouble with bandits? No. Did you have any visitors recently? Yes. But she never said a word or uttered a sound, even when the nettles stung at her forearms. Eventually she packed up the nettles in her baskets, and she picked up one and reached for another. Fenris reached over and hoisted it up easily enough. 

“I will carry one. Please lead the way.” Fenris said. The woman smiled a grateful smile and hurried down the path. Anders followed with the last basket in his arms, and Fenris walked at his side. 

“Your friend is a mage.” Fenris whispered once he was certain they were out of the woman’s hearing. Humans did not have the same range of hearing as elves did. 

“Yes. She is.” Anders replied. “But she’s harmless. Keeps to herself, mostly.” 

“Save when she needs nettles.” Fenris muttered. A mute mage woman who lives in the mysterious depths of the woods and collects nettles from the ruins on an enchanted estate. It was outlandish, a story that Varric would weave together- but here it was. But Fenris doubted that Varric had the imagination to write a story about a man turned beast who lived in an enchanted manor. 

“Usually.” Anders replied. “But she comes by every once in a while for the company.” 

“What does she need them for?” Fenris asked. “The nettles. She gathered so many.” 

“Ask her. She’ll show you.” Anders said, and he chuckled when Fenris glared up at him. 

“I will not tell other people’s stories. Go ahead and ask.” And in a kinder, gentler voice, Anders continued to speak. “She isn’t like the mages in Tevinter. Most mages aren’t. And if I’m completely wrong I’ll protect you. Promise.” And then he winked one great golden eye at him before returning his attention to the shady path ahead. 

Fenris followed him cautiously, for as large and intimidating as Anders was he was obviously a fool. He would walk straight into danger. Even if his neighbor was harmless- for a harmless mage seemed as impossible as “deafening silence”- Anders would find himself in some other trouble. Fenris had to protect the foolish man. He had been cursed by a mage he trusted, what other sort of danger could Anders find himself in if he was not watched and protected? Even a Warden could be killed. 

“Here it is!” Anders announced as they reached a clearing in the woods. Fenris blinked and tried to clear his eyes to gaze on the sight before him. 

It was a small cottage, stone walls clean and roof thatched with straw. The wood shutters were shut, but it seemed a clean, pleasant place. Not the dwelling of a blood mage or maleficar, clearly. It was bright and friendly, and the meadow was littered with evidence of life and activity. There was a table and several wooden stools, a wooden tub and a clothesline, a garden heavy with vegetables and fruit, and so much more. Anders’s neighbor seemed to be a busy woman. 

The woman had already set her basket down on the ground next to several troughs full of water. She placed the nettles in the water, and gestured towards the other baskets he and Anders carried. He handed his basket over, and she dumped the nettles into the water, and repeated the action with Anders’s basket. The nettles settled in the water, and the woman looked pleased. 

“What are you doing with all these nettles?” Fenris asked, because there were so many plants. Why would any one person need so many plants? The woman smiled and held up a hand, as if asking him to wait. She retreated into her cottage, but kept the door open. Fenris heard her rummaging around for something, but there was no sound of weaponry or the tell tale smell and pull of magic, so he relaxed. 

“Huh. Wonder where her swans went.” Anders remarked as he carefully sat down on one of the wooden stools. Fenris joined him, sitting on the stool to his right so he could watch the cottage door. 

“Swans?” 

“She has a whole flock. They live near the pond behind the cottage. Aggressive little bastards.” Anders explained as the woman bustled back, carrying another basket under her arm while holding two mugs and a teapot in one hand and a cake in the other. She pulled out a small saucer from the basket and set it down in front of Anders before setting out the mugs and cake and pouring the tea. It smelled like flowers. Roses and cherry blossoms. Anders took the saucer in his paws and daintily sipped on his tea. The woman drank her tea and, after watching her to see if she had somehow poisoned the drink, Fenris followed suit. It was sweet on his tongue. 

“So, where did your feathered friends fly off to?” Anders asked. The woman gestured towards the setting sun. She sliced up the cake, some concoction with dried fruit and nuts, and handed it over to Anders and Fenris. She then tugged out something from her basket, a mass of dull brown-green yarn, and began to sort through it with her slender, calloused fingers. 

“You have a lovely home.” Fenris said politely, certain that this was the strangest tea party he had ever been a guest to. A man cursed to look as a beast, a mute mage, and a fugitive elf. What a picture they must make. The woman smiled and pushed the cake slice towards him. Fenris ate a small bite. It was thick and a little gluey, but it tasted fine. 

“I don’t like the idea of you being out here alone.” Anders remarked. “At least with your swans you have some protection. Mean little birds.” The woman rolled her eyes and gave Anders and exaggerated glare before cracking her knuckles. 

“Fine! You can take care of yourself. Just know the door is always open if you need somewhere to go.” Anders said with a laugh. It was a pleasant laugh, Fenris thought, and Anders laughed easily. Fenris felt a stab of envy at the ease with which Anders expressed himself. Fenris’s stoicism was beaten into him the moment he rose from Danarius’s experiment chambers as Fenris, his past melting away like ice in the hot noonday sun. 

A small tap on the table pulled Fenris from his thoughts, and he returned his attention to the woman who sat across from him. She carefully pulled out the yarn and set it on the table, and then reached further into the basket and pulled out a shirt woven from the same fibers. She pointed to the nettles in the water, then to the fibers on the table, then held up the shirt. 

“You are making shirts from nettles.” Fenris stated. “You take the fibers from the nettles and turn it into yarn. Then you make shirts.” The woman beamed and held the yarn out to Fenris. He hesitantly touched it. It was soft, so unlike the harsh nettles that left so many rashes. How could something so soft come from something that caused so much pain? 

Time, a small voice echoed in his mind. Time and hard work. 

“She keeps getting better at it, just like the cooking.” Anders said. “You should see the first shirt she knit. More hole than shirt!” The woman grinned and pulled out the shirt Anders described, and Fenris bit back his laughter. 

“It is a good effort.” He said instead, and the woman poured him more tea. 

The afternoon passed pleasantly. Fenris was still cautious, but the woman was as she appeared- a mute young woman who wove shirts from nettles and brewed delicious tea (though her baking needed more work). She was no great conversationalist, clearly, but there was something to be said for her quiet companionship. She was friendly and animated, gesturing and pantomiming when she needed to make her opinion known. Fenris found himself enjoying his time with Anders and his neighbor. It was peaceful. He had not known time in the company of a mage could be peaceful. 

When it was time to leave, she pressed a small package of tea leaves into Fenris’s hands as he and Anders left to return to the manor. Anders looked into the contents as they walked down the path. It was darker now, but they could still see the path as the moon rose and provided enough light for their eyes. 

“Chamomile, lavender, oak moss, and bergamot.” Anders declared as he wrapped up the tea. “Herbs for healing and relaxation. She must have noticed the lyrium and the scars.” 

“You know of healing herbs?” Fenris asked. Tea for healing his scars, for easing pain. He did not know such things existed, save for healing potions. 

“I was a healer, when I was a Warden. Still am when I’m needed.” Anders explained. “I should have offered some potions to you earlier, I brew large enough batches to scrape some off the top for a guest.” 

“Healing potions.” Fenris looked down at Anders’s paws, which were still cradling the packet of tea. “You make healing potions.” Somehow Fenris could see it, see those giant paws cutting and measuring ingredients, pouring potions into bottles, wrapping wounds. Anders was gentle, and his gentleness shined through his beastly exterior. 

“Yes. My businessman friend travels in and picks them up, and he splits the profits.” Anders explained. “It’s not like I can do much with the money, so I just keep it locked up.” Fenris thought this story sounded familiar, and he wondered if Varric’s yarn about his merchandise was really a story he wove to sell his wares. 

“Is your friend a beardless dwarf with a penchant for telling stories?” Fenris asked. 

“Of course you know Varric.” Anders snorted, and he handed over the tea packet. “Did you know I’ve yet to meet someone who hasn’t met or heard of Varric Tethras?” 

“That must please him immensely.” Fenris joked. 

“Don’t tell him, his ego can barely fit into buildings as it is.” Anders replied. “But he is a good friend.” 

“He mentioned you once, when I asked where he got the healing potions.” Fenris said. “I wanted to know who sold such high quality products so cheaply, and he told me it was a bleeding heart hermit in the woods who brewed the potions while singing love songs to the moon.” Once again, Fenris had dismissed such stories as nonsense, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

“Close enough, if you exclude the singing. Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.” Anders replied. “But if you know Varric, surely you know his companions.” 

“Isabela was the pirate, wasn’t she?” Fenris asked with a smile. “She said she fought a great lion with her bare hands in these woods.” Isabela was as great a story teller as Varric, though her stories tended to end with sex. Lots of sex. 

“Isabela beat me at Wicked Grace, because she cheats at cards.” Anders retorted. But he was smiling, his fangs bright in the dark. 

“She hides the cards in her bosom.” Fenris informed Anders. “She also marks them with her ring. Makes a dent in the pattern when she shuffles them.” Once Fenris discovered her tricks it was easy to defeat Isabela at cards. But it was a good few months and plenty of lost coin before he found her out. 

“Varric cheats too.” Anders said mournfully. “And he asks for even more ridiculous prizes for winning.” 

“He does cheat. I haven’t figured out how yet, but he does cheat.” Fenris replied. It was nice to talk about the few acquaintances, even friends, he made in Kirkwall. And Anders was so easy to talk to. 

“Bastard.” Anders said fondly as they rounded the path and were suddenly at the gates to the manor. 

There were lights within, and Fenris wondered what sort of meal the spirits conjured up tonight. He wondered if Anders would join him. He did eat the tea cakes and drink tea earlier, though Fenris noticed how very careful he was to drink slowly and pop the cakes into his mouth. Fenris hoped Anders would stay. He did not think he would find a kindred spirit in the woods, but he had. Perhaps if he drew Anders into more conversation, the man would stay for dinner. 

“If you know Isabela and Varric,” Fenris began to say as they approached the manor. “Then you probably know-” 

“Good evening, gentlemen!” A loud voice exclaimed merrily, cutting through the night with the brassy boldness of the sun. It was a voice Fenris knew well, the voice of a friend who helped him find work in Kirkwall, work and a roof over his head. 

“Hawke.” Fenris and Anders said as a man as large and hairy as a bear stepped out of the front door, his enormous frame blocking out most of the light. 

“Well, you two better hurry on inside. Colder than a Chantry Mother’s tits out there!” Hawke declared. “Your spirits made some kind of roast and potatoes, and I’m hungry enough to eat a dragon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this story (and all my other stories). I really appreciate it!


	4. A Drop Of Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took some time to get down, but I'm happy to say I've outlined the rest of this story and I'm confident in where it's headed! Thank you all for waiting so patiently!

Anders always enjoyed the company of his friends. Being out in the woods meant he had little company, and interpreting the feelings of the spirits and the hedgewitch’s pantomiming never could quite satisfy his need to hear another voice. Fenris was a welcome guest, with his lovely rich voice and polite, refined speech. He always thought before he spoke, and Anders had never met anyone like him before. Anders would gladly sit and listen to Fenris speak forever if he could. But there were some guests who Anders would like to strangle sometimes.

“Really, Anders? You let Fenris into your home?” Hawked asked over dinner. “Fenris?” He sounded utterly shocked, as if he had stumbled upon an Orlesian and Ferelden enjoying a tea party together.

“Fenris is a perfectly polite guest.” Anders sniffed, letting the implication that Hawke was an impolite guest hover in the air along with the scent of the roast and fresh bread they had for dinner.

“And you are perfectly willing to stay in Anders’s home.” Hawke stated as he stared at Fenris as if Fenris was the strange one. Fenris rolled his eyes.

“Anders is a perfectly polite host.” Fenris said firmly. “Unlike you, Hawke. You let your mabari maul me.”

“Ser Barkspawn loves you, Fenris.” Hawke insisted. “You’re his favorite non-Hawke!”

“He sat on me and drooled. Dog slobber everywhere.” Fenris complained, but he was smiling as he spoke. Anders could hear the fondness in Fenris’s voice, warm and sweet. Fenris’s gentle friendship was like a winter sun, Anders thought. It was a welcome surprise when least expected.

“Cats do not slobber.” Anders said, unable to resist commenting on the benefits of a cat over a dog. “And they’re remarkably clean.”

“Maker not this again!” Hawke exclaimed. “A mabari is a loyal, fierce, loving companion. A cat will eat your face the moment you die, a mabari hound will die next to you.”

“Rather useless gesture of loyalty, really.” Fenris remarked. “A cat’s way is practical.” Anders felt his heart flutter when Fenris defended cats over dogs. He probably only said it to rile Hawke up, Anders told himself. Fenris seemed the type who would tease his friends and mock them to get a reaction. But it made Anders feel light on his feet (or to be more accurate, his paws) to hear Fenris agree with him. They had something in common, Anders thought. Fenris might hate magic and mages, but he and Anders had common ground.

Perhaps it was foolishness to believe that an admiration for felines meant they could be friends. But Anders had made friends out of less commonality before. And Anders adored cats. He missed having a cat around to get underfoot and demand tummy scratches and cuddle with when he was lonely. 

“You would say that.” Hawke snorted, but he stood up from the table and stretched upwards. “Well, I’m to bed. You have a guest room open?”

“One of the spirits will show you a room. They probably heard you coming from a league away.” Anders replied. The spirits were always prepared for guests. Anders didn’t know how they knew when he would have guests and the best way to look after visitors, but somehow they knew. Anders believed that they spied the roads and trails that wove through the mountains and guessed who would visit, but even this theory couldn’t explain how the spirits prepared meals that were always perfect for the occasion. It was a kind of magic that Anders couldn’t explain.

“Night, Anders. Fenris. I’ll join you for breakfast before moving on. Got to get to Kirkwall, see Mother and trade information with Varric.” Hawke rambled, and he let out a loud, obnoxious yawn. It couldn’t have been more fake if he tried. He winked at Anders before he strolled out of the drawing room, and Anders knew that Hawke would seek him out later tonight. He would try to warn him, to tell him what Fenris was looking for and that Anders was in danger. And Anders would tell Hawke that he knew, and that it didn’t really matter because it was _Fenris_. Fenris was different.

“Hawke visits often?” Fenris asked. He was sitting in an armchair, his feet dangling over an arm as he sipped wine from a crystal wineglass. He looked relaxed and rather pampered, his white hair loose around his shoulders. Fenris was wearing something the spirits dug out for him, leather leggings and a tunic made of crimson silk with delicate gold embroidery. He looked like a princeling, beautiful and untouchable and as dangerous as a tiger.

“Whenever he’s passing through to visit Clan Sabrae.” Anders replied. “A few times a season, I suppose. Often enough that he’s a regular face in these parts.” Anders glanced down at his hands. Paws. There was beautiful Fenris, sitting in his armchair, and here he was, looming over the mantle like a horrendous beast. How could he think they had anything in common?

“I suppose you are accustomed to Hawke’s behavior.” Fenris said. “When I first met him his openness was a shock.” Fenris stared at the fire in the fireplace, the light and shadows highlighting his strong profile. Anders tried to keep himself from sighing wistfully over Fenris’s beauty.

“He tried to stab me when we first met.” Anders joked. “He missed, obviously.” Fenris smiled, and Anders smiled back, fangs and all. He was gratified that Fenris didn’t flinch. Instead he raised an eyebrow and gestured to an empty armchair.

“Please take a seat.” Fenris said politely. “I wouldn’t want to keep my host standing.” So Anders took a seat across from Fenris and settled into the cushions. It was large enough to hold his frame, thank the Maker. Furniture wasn’t really built for giant beasts, but somehow the manor was furnished with a few pieces he could use. So he sat across from Fenris and smiled.

“I’m certain you must be tired as well, Fenris.” Anders said politely. “You needn’t keep yourself up to keep me entertained.”

 

“I would rather speak with you for a while before I go to my room.” Fenris said, his voice firm. “I wish to discuss your neighbor.”

“The hedgewitch? Fenris, she’s harmless. I promise.” Anders insisted. It was because she was a mage, wasn’t it? Any mage was dangerous in Fenris’s eyes. If he knew Anders was a mage, he would- Anders tried not to shudder as he thought of enchanted iron shackles and high stone walls and the lyrium brand that surely awaited him.

“She is still an apostate.” Fenris replied. “She could turn on you, Anders.”

“She never leaves the woods, she’s no danger to anyone.” Anders said. It was hard to imagine the tiny hedgewitch taking him on if he was in his human shape, never mind being an enormous, leonine beast with antlers sharp enough to gore a full grown man. His mere presence made seasoned battle mages tremble and forget the spells they were casting.

“A mage is dangerous when cornered. I have seen and felt magic’s bite. As have you.” Fenris looked at Anders pointedly before sipping at his wine again. A drop of the dark red lingered on his bottom lip, and Fenris’s tongue darted out to sweep up the alcohol.

“It’s hardly a punishment when I like being alone and seeing in the dark.” Anders protested, but it felt weak when faced with the picture of restrained erotic beauty that Fenris presented. If he were a man, what would he do? Woo Fenris? Seduce Fenris? He was pretty when he was human. But if Anders were human again, Fenris would want nothing to do with him.

“It is no gift either.” Fenris declared. “I… you have been generous, Anders, and kinder than anyone could hope for. I do not wish to see your kindness betrayed.”

“She won’t.” Anders promised. “She hasn’t said, but I think she’s under some sort of curse too. The swans in her care are suspiciously intelligent. And mean.” The little bastards swarmed him the first time he followed the hedgewitch to her home, and if it weren't for his thick fur Anders was certain he would have scars to commemorate the encounter. They still hissed at him and crowded around her when visited, something Anders was certain normal swans didn't do.

“Is everyone in this forest enchanted?” Fenris demanded, though his eyes lost that hard glint in them and he seemed more amused than concerned. His mouth turned upwards into a smile, the sort of smile that felt secret and special and just for Anders.

“Sundermount is a beacon for strange magics.” Anders explained, hoping to draw another smile from Fenris. “I’m sure if you look hard enough you’ll find a wicked blood mage in a gingerbread and candy house.” Anders’s heart fluttered wildly when Fenris laughed.

“We can scatter breadcrumbs and steal her treasure.” Fenris promised. “If your neighbor’s swans don’t eat the trail.”

“They’re picky little bastards, so I think we’ll be alright.” Anders said. “Fenris?”

“Yes?” Fenris asked, beautiful and elegant and everything Anders wasn’t.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Anders confessed, too afraid to say ‘you are beautiful.’ “I haven't had such good company in a long time.”

“Hawke is not good company?” Fenris asked.

“Hawke is Hawke. He is a dear friend but sometimes…” Anders let his voice trail off as he watched Fenris watch the fire.

“Sometimes Hawke is too much.” Fenris said. “But he is a good friend. A noble one.”

“How did the two of you meet?” The question popped out of Anders’s mouth before he could restrain himself from prying.

“Hawke found me on the streets in Kirkwall.” Fenris said. “I had just arrived from Tevinter. I was starving and sick, and Hawke saved me. Brought me to his home and made sure I was well before sending me on my way.” Fenris’s eyes were misty, remembering events both pleasant and sorrowful.

“That sounds like Hawke.” Anders replied. “He is a good man.”

“He is. As are you, Anders.” Fenris insisted. Anders felt himself flush under his fur, and was grateful that the golden hair covered his skin. But his ears twitched and Fenris smiled, and Anders knew he did not hide his pleasure or embarrassment well enough.

“That is kind of you to say, Fenris.” Anders managed to murmur. “But I think you’ve imbibed too much of the wine.”

“Wine loosens my tongue, but it does not make me speak falsely.” Fenris retorted, his voice taking on a sort of sing-song cadence. He raised his goblet to Anders and smiled, eyes gleaming with humor and so beautiful Anders could hardly breathe.

“To Anders, the finest man I know.” Fenris declared before he drained his goblet. “And the owner of a particularly excellent wine collection.” Fenris stood up from the armchair, a graceful, fluid motion where he swung his legs over and lifted himself up. He swept across the room and reached the table, where the bottle of wine rested.

“It’s useless to me.” Anders joked, raising his paws up for Fenris’s inspection. “Couldn’t get a bottle open with these.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Fenris purred out, and he poured the contents of the wine bottle into a shallow bowl and handing it over to Anders. Fenris toasted him again with the wine bottle and smiled.

“I would hate to deprive you of your wine, Anders.” Fenris said, and he drank from the bottle. Anders slowly sipped from the bowl, the spice and fruit flavors dancing on his tongue. He had not had a drink in years, ever since he took this form. But now he was here, drinking with Fenris. He wondered how he could return Fenris’s consideration.

“If you plan to hunt down a blood mage, or a demon, there are things you should know, Fenris.” Anders said slowly. Fenris’s eyes widened, and he sat down in his armchair. Anders felt it was as good a time as any to begin explaining the way demons hid in Sundermount.

“There are many ravines and hidden areas in the mountain, overgrown with dense foliage. Demons will often hide in the isolated regions of the woods and pounce on unsuspecting travelers.” Anders said quietly, watching Fenris's face as he absorbed the information.

“We haven't had any sightings of blood mages recently, but the demons are often their work, leftovers from spells and battles that weren’t killed or sent back to the Fade.” Anders explained. “And they’re all the more dangerous, because they don’t have a mage to report back too. You must be careful, Fenris.”

“Why are you telling me this? I thought the forest was safe.” Fenris may have just downed nearly an entire bottle of wine, but his faculties were still as sharp as ever. Anders was rather impressed.

“The forest around the manor is safe.” Anders corrected. “And the hedgewitch and Clan Sabrae protect the areas they live in. But Sundermount is… well, it’s a strange place, with a lot of pockets to hide in. Anything can live in these woods, especially things that don’t want to be found.”

“That does not answer my question.” Fenris stated dryly. “Why do you want to tell me all this, Anders?”

“Well, I- I consider you a friend.” Anders mumbled, staring down at the red wine lapping at the edges of the bowl. “And you just- you treat me like a person, Fenris. You have from the very beginning.”  
From the moment they met face to face in his cellar to the moment Fenris politely addressed his unseen host his first night in the manor, Fenris had always made sure Anders was treated as a man.

“You are a person, Anders.” Fenris insisted.

“Sometimes I forget.” Anders confessed. “I forget how to be a man because it’s so much easier to be a beast in this shape.”

“I will help you remember, then.” Fenris promised. “For neither of us are wild beasts.” He reached over and patted Anders’s paw with his hand, and the warmth stayed with Anders long after Fenris left for bed.

Anders retreated to his tower room after asking the spirits to clean the parlor and put the fire out. The spirits buzzed with excitement and whispered conversations that Anders couldn’t manage to hear. He let the spirits hum and sing their conversations, and he climbed up the stairs so he could spend the night alone and try not to pine over Fenris’s fine eyes and infectious laughter.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Hawke remarked, sitting on top of his workbench and grinning like an unrepentant boy who stole a pie from a windowsill or pulled a girl’s pigtails. Anders groaned and shut the tower door.

“What do you want, Hawke?” Anders asked. Hawke hopped off the workbench and approached Anders.

“Wanted to warn you about Fenris.” Hawke said, suddenly serious. “He’s a good lad, honest, but he’s not exactly fond of magic or mages. Snapped something fierce at Bethany until she proved that she was a friend.”

“I know he’s from Tevinter and doesn’t like magic.” Anders replied, trying to maintain a light conversational tone. “Hates it, really. But he’s a good man and has his reasons.”

“He seems awfully chummy with you, though.” Hawke looked carefully at Anders. “You haven’t told him you’re a mage.”

“He hasn’t asked.” Anders said defensively, but he knew it was a feeble counterargument. A lie by omission was still a lie, after all. Fenris would hate him forever if he found out. But he never had to find out, did he? He could just go on his merry way after he left the manor, and Anders could keep the memories of their conversations close to his heart.

“Maker he’s going to be pissed when he finds out.” Hawke muttered.

“He won’t have to find out.” Anders said hotly.

“He isn’t an idiot, Anders! He’s no Knight Commander Meredith, but Fenris will tear you apart when he learns you’ve kept your magic a secret from him!” Hawke exclaimed. “You have to convince him to leave before he tries to murder you or something!”

“I can’t force him to leave, Hawke. He’s my guest and he’s welcome here.” Anders insisted. “And perhaps it won’t be so bad. I can convince him that mages aren’t evil, he’s reasonable-”

“Not with magic, he isn’t.” Hawke muttered, but he sighed and backed away from Anders.

“I know I can’t convince you, Anders, and I won’t be telling Fenris your secrets. I just…” Hawke sighed. “I want you to be careful. You’re my friend, Anders.”

“I’ll be careful, Hawke. Just don’t ask me to send Fenris away. We’re getting along so well, and I… I like his company.” Anders thought of Fenris’s smile, his manners, how solemn he could appear and how easily that solemnity disappeared when there was a chance to smile and make a joke.

“He’s alright.” Hawke agreed. “Mage hatred aside, he’s a good man. I’ll let you sleep now, I’ve got a feather bed calling my name.”

“Good night, Hawke.” Anders said.

“Good night, Anders.” Hawke replied.

Anders stayed awake for nearly an hour after their conversation. Hawke was right, Anders knew he was right. Fenris would be furious when he learned that Anders had magic running through his veins along with blood.

It would be easier if he were a man again, Anders thought wistfully. He was pretty once, and with a little care and effort he could easily charm Fenris with a smile and a wink. He could show him the benefits of magic, the way a healing spell could soothe the aches and pains of every day’s toil and bring comfort. The way heat and cold could serve to excite the body. The way he could excite Fenris and prove that magic could serve man, and that Anders would use the magic he had to serve what was best, not what was base. Well, mostly what was best. Anders could bend the rules and serve his baser nature, especially when the results were so satisfactory.

Anders glared at an old robe of his that lay crumpled on top of his old chest of drawers. It was a tattered thing of feathers and canvas, but he had loved it dearly. But it was far too small for him now, and he could only stare and wish he could wear it again. He could only put on the largest trousers and shirt available in the manor, and it was only for function, not fashion. Plain linen covered his form, but Anders missed being vain. He missed dressing up.

Anders let himself think of all the things he could do if he had his normal shape. The places he could go, the people he could meet. He could have a meal with Fenris without fearing that he would look like a monster while eating. He could go into the city and be around people again. He could touch a lover without fear of hurting them, he could see the world and be unafraid-

He would take one step outside this forest and be chained and locked up, Anders reminded himself. There was no kindness in the world for a mage, and he would be imprisoned as soon as his magic was recognized. He could never find peace. It was better this way, Anders told himself as he crawled into a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets, the only bed that could fit him. Here no one hunted him. Here he was free.

The freedom was sour on his tongue.

Hawke was as bright and cheery as ever at breakfast the next morning. He dug into a slice of ham steak with great gusto and drank a huge mug of strong black tea. Anders sat back in his seat and watched Hawke enjoy his meal. He had already eaten. Hawke was dressed and groomed, ready for the journey back into Kirkwall, and he looked ready to be gone. He was a restless sort, Anders knew. Hawke always wanted a new adventure, and never lingered in a given place too long.

There was no sign of Fenris, though the spirits indicated that the elf was awake. Judging by the brassy tingle of a particular spirit of Purpose, Fenris was in his bedroom freshening up. The spirit did not believe that Fenris was readying himself quickly enough, and disapproved of his sloth. Anders gently dismissed the spirit and poured himself a small saucer of tea. Drinking tea while his guests ate was simply polite. Anders thought of the wine he shared with Fenris last night, and the way Fenris picked at his mind and smiled. Fenris was more than a pretty face, Anders thought, but he had an engaging personality as well.

“Ah, and the sleeping beauty appears!” Hawke announced, voice booming through the parlor. Fenris emerged in the doorway, and Anders could only stare at the sight before him. Fenris was disheveled and barely awake, white hair tangled and fluffed up at strange angles. His green eyes were slightly puffy and red from a hangover. He wore a house robe of dark green wool tied around his waist with a velvet cord. The robe’s low neckline revealed much of his chest and his collarbone. His feet were bare. Fenris was an utter mess.

He was beautiful.

“Vishante kaffas, Hawke.” Fenris grumbled before depositing himself in the seat next to Anders. Anders politely began to serve up breakfast for Fenris: ham steak, poached eggs, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, bread, and good, strong tea. Fenris looked up at Anders through bleary green eyes and gave him a small, grateful smile.

“Thank you, Anders.” Fenris said, and he took the plate from Anders’s paws. His fingers brushed against Anders’s fur, warm and gentle. Anders felt himself flush under the fur and quickly returned to his tea as Fenris began to eat his breakfast.

“So, sleep well, Fenris?” Hawke asked as Fenris ate his food. Fenris shrugged and kept eating. Anders glared at Hawke. Was he trying to pry information from Fenris? Bother him? What was Hawke trying to do?

“Let him eat, Hawke. You had your chance to eat breakfast.” Anders said sternly.

 

“I’ll have seconds, then.” Hawke declared, and he cut himself another portion of ham. Fenris ate his breakfast, Hawke had his seconds, and Anders drank his tea. When Fenris was finally done with his breakfast, he seemed a little more awake and alert.

“How’s the head?” Anders asked. Fenris grimaced.

“Better. I could use a potion.” Fenris gave him an almost pleading look, and Anders was nearly tempted to give Fenris a mountain of potions. But it would not be good for Fenris’s health to just down potions without allowing his body time to recover naturally. He may be a beast now, but he was still a healer. He could not let Fenris damage his health.

“Too many potions destroy their effectiveness.” Anders warned. “Have some more tea, it will help.” Anders poured more tea into a mug and handed it over to Fenris.

“Fasta vass, you nag worse than a fishwife.” Fenris grumbled, but he drank the tea Anders offered him. Hawke chuckled, and only laughed louder when Fenris glared at him.

“You two are adorable.” Hawke teased. Anders tried to ignore the teasing and drank his tea. He noticed that Fenris’s ears were bright red. That was adorable.

Hawke left the manor after breakfast. Anders and Fenris said goodbye to him in the stables. Fenris had gotten dressed after he finished eating his breakfast, and he looked as if he had not been suffering from a hangover only an hour before. Hawke adjusted the straps on his saddle and hoisted himself up on his giant bay horse.

“Have a safe journey.” Anders called up to Hawke. “The path should be clear, and the spirits say the roads are safe today.” With these conditions and the spirits on his side, Hawke would have a swift and uneventful journey back to the city.

“Good to know. I’ll come by in a month or so, let you know how things are in the city.” Hawke said, but Anders read between the lines and knew that Hawke meant that he would keep an eye out on the Templar activity in Kirkwall.

“Need anything out here, Fenris?” Hawke asked.

“No, Hawke. I am well.” Fenris replied. “Ride safely.”

“I will.” Hawke promised. “If you plan to go out looking for demons and blood magic, at least bring Anders with you.”

“What?” Fenris sounded mildly surprised, and perhaps even slightly offended.

“It’s a dense, dark forest out there, even without the enchantments. It’s downright deadly with all the magic bouncing about under the canopy.” Hawke glanced out beyond the manor gates, out to the dark forest beyond. “Just promise me, alright?”

“I will let Anders know where I intend to go. I will not drag an innocent man into battle, Hawke.” Fenris said solemnly. Anders felt his heart flutter a little in his chest, and his knees went a little weak. Fenris’s protectiveness made him feel a bit like a swooning Orlesian damsel. Anders didn’t always think of himself as a swooner, but if he was going to feel faint he’d rather faint with a handsome man close by to catch him.

“That’s the best I’m going to get out of you, isn’t it?” Hawke sighed. “Very well. Anders, you be careful as well. Not everyone is as kind as some can be.” Be careful around Fenris, Hawke meant. He’s kind now but he could hurt you. Be careful, Anders. Anders knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t stop now. Fenris was… he was special. Anders couldn’t help but get to know him. Fire was warm and necessary for life, beautiful and strong. But fire could also destroy everything it touched.

“You better hurry, if you don’t leave soon you’ll end up in Kirkwall after dark.” Anders replied, and Hawke waved farewell before thundering out of the gate on his enormous bay stallion. Fenris and Anders watched him ride out until he disappeared into the treeline. Fenris turned and tilted his head up to look at Anders.

“Is everything alright, Anders?” Fenris asked, and Anders forced a smile on his face and prayed to the Maker and Andraste that he would eventually be able to tell Fenris the truth. I am a mage, Fenris, Anders thought sadly. Would you still be my friend, would you still smile and laugh with me, if you knew what power runs through my fingertips? Or would you reject me? What would you do?

Anders feared the answer he might receive.

“Yes. Just Hawke being a worrier again.” Anders said cheerfully. “Ready to head inside? I can tell you everything I know about demon attacks in these mountains. I’m sure it will help you in your search.” Anders followed Fenris on the way back to the manor, and he hoped Fenris would be able to forgive him for this great deception someday.


	5. Seeking and Finding

Fenris was quickly becoming accustomed to the presence of spirits. The brushes with the beings was always a little startling. The spirits seemed to enjoy crowding around him and attending to his every need. Perhaps they were bored of wandering around the manor and caring for only one occupant. Anders had a different theory.

“It’s the lyrium.” Anders postulated over dinner one evening as one particular spirit insisted on taking Fenris’s cloak from him so it could hang it up near the fire and let it dry. The weather had been poor for the last few days, delaying Fenris’s scouting trips until it cleared. He had gone outside to tend to his horse (Anders insisted on calling the mare Lady Snowball, much to Fenris’s chagrin), and the rain soaked him to the bone, even with the heavy duty cloak on. Fenris disliked how the spirit tugged at the fabric and tried to hang up the cloak himself. The spirit was quite demanding, so Fenris eventually let it do as it pleased. Anders merely chuckled at the spectacle, the low rumble filling the room.

“Excuse me?” Fenris had asked as another spirit busied itself with pouring wine and pushing Fenris’s chair in.

“The spirits like the lyrium. It reminds them of the Fade.” Anders explained. “No wonder they fuss over you so!”

“I would prefer it if they stopped fussing. I am not an invalid or a child.” Fenris grumbled, but it did not stop the spirits from poking and prodding and generally caring for him as if he were a toddler. Fenris was used to it now, but it was still an annoyance. It was especially irritating when Fenris tried to explore the manor house only to have spirits gently corral him back to the main rooms of the home. Getting shut in due to poor weather put Fenris in a black mood. To combat his ill temper, he decided to explore the manor house by himself. Anders was often away attending to his own business, so Fenris was usually free to walk as he pleased. The spirits, however, were less inclined to leave him be.

“Kaffas, will you creatures let me be?” Fenris growled as the spirits tugged at his borrowed tunic (a creation of sapphire blue silk and silver thread) to lead him away from yet another door. This made the fifth door this day, and the spirits seemed determined to shuffle him off somewhere. Fenris was not alarmed. He recognized that the spirits had more than enough opportunities to harm him and never had, but it was irritating.

“What do you want from me?” He grumbled as the spirits tinkled and chimed as they shoved him along, up a set of winding stone steps and in front of a large wooden door at the top of those steps. The spirits abruptly stopped their advance up the stairs. They (for Fenris could feel that it was more than one spirit, many more) backed away from him and the door, suddenly silent and solemn. Where before they were behaving as if it was a game to lead him through the halls of the estate and bar his entrance to random rooms, now they were waiting for him to decide. 

Fenris placed his hand on the door and only felt polished wood against his fingertips. His curiosity burned within him. What was behind this door that made the spirits back away? What was behind it that the spirits wanted Fenris to see? What if it was something Anders did not want him to see? Fenris was far too curious.

“If it is locked I will return to the parlor.” Fenris addressed the spirits, but it was mostly for himself. If the door was shut to him, he would leave. He would not pry. He would walk away. Fenris placed his hand on the iron doorknob and twisted, then pushed. The door swung inwards, and Fenris stepped through.

The tower room was small and made of stone. A lantern hung from the ceiling, the candle inside the clouded glass guttering with a slight breeze. The windows were open, the shutters banging against the stone tower as the wind blew and rainwater flew into the room. Fenris hurried over and pulled the shutters closed before locking them. He took a better look around the room.

There were shelves that covered every wall of the tower and stretched up to the ceiling. Each shelf was stacked with small chests, the type that Fenris recognized merchants in Kirkwall used to keep their coin. Fenris experimentally walked to a shelf and lifted the box. Heavy. He set it back down on the shelf. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed like the chest was filled with coins.

Fenris turned his attention to a large chest on the ground under one of the windows. Would there be more coin in this one? Rare treasures? Fenris finally saw the appeal in treasure hunting. It was the anticipation of the unknown. He attempted to lift the lid, and was disappointed to find the chest locked. It must be infinitely more precious than coin, Fenris decided.

“I shall leave you be, then.” Fenris said. He was going to leave the room and return downstairs, his exploration finished, but something sitting on a rough wooden table caught his eye.

The table was shoved against an empty wall next to the door. It was cluttered with papers and bottles of ink and quite a few pens. Fenris noticed that the pages had writing all over them, but the symbols were as much a mystery to him as they ever were. He picked up a small, leather bound book off the desk and idly thumbed through it. Fenris did not expect to find anything. Books were useless to him. He was surprised to find this book was not what he thought it was.

The leather was smooth against his palm, the pages thick and a creamy color between his fingers. And the pages were covered with pictures, rough sketches of places and animals and people that Fenris had never seen before. Fenris took a seat on the floor next to the desk and began to thumb through the pages.

Fenris quickly realized that the sketchbook must belong to Anders. The warden symbol of the griffin and the silver and blue uniform was hard to ignore. Did Anders draw these pictures of his companions? There were a few written words by the drawings, written in an elegant, steady hand. The illustrations were beautiful. There was a dwarf woman with tattoos on her face and a cheeky grin standing next to a dower Dalish elf holding a staff. This must be Velanna, Fenris thought as he looked at the woman’s sharp features and glum expression. There was another dwarf on another page with a giant beard. He was cleaning an axe while sitting on a rock. The mangled body of some sort of monstrous creature lay at his feet. There were more illustrations, more places, so many people. The notebook primarily held illustrations of a rather grim faced elf, his long hair braided into a plait that hung behind his back. He was terribly elegant and dangerous looking, even when covered in what looked to be demon ichor and grime. Whoever illustrated this must have thought the world of him, Fenris thought. The tender devotion to this man was apparent in every line of the sketch. Fenris turned the page because it felt like he was intruding on something private. The next page made Fenris nearly gasp. He had thought the people before were interesting and engaging, but this-

It was a man. A mage, if his staff was any indication of what he was. He was wearing the Warden uniform, stained with blood, and he was casually looking in the distance towards something to his right, completely relaxed. He was even smiling a bit, softening his sharp features. His hair seemed light and soft, even in the illustration, and his eyes were beautiful and dark. He was not classically handsome. Too thin and tall and narrow in the face for that. But there was something in his bearing, the pleasant arrangement of his features, that Fenris found attractive. Even his long nose and freckles were endearing. Pretty, Fenris thought. Very pretty. Spirited too, with a mouth made for quick smiles and laughter.

Also dangerous. Mage. Fenris slammed the sketchbook shut and returned it to the table. Rude, Fenris told himself. Rude, sneaking spy, looking through Anders’s belongings when it was clearly his and should not have been rifled around in. Impolite. It was behavior unworthy of him. Anders was his host and now Fenris was acting as suspicious as a thief. 

Fenris berated himself as he hurried down the stairs. Those were Anders’s things, he had no business poking around in them- and a mage! He stared at an image of a mage and thought so many things, wrong and terrible thoughts, dangerous thoughts to have about mages. What would this man’s hair have felt like in his hands? Was his smile really so brilliant, or had the artist exaggerated it? How many freckles did he have, and did they extend past his neck?

They were wicked thoughts. Fenris had to banish them.

“Outside.” Fenris decided. “I will scout the surrounding forest.” He had put it off long enough due to bad weather, but he would put it off no more. He gathered his pack and his cloak, his sword and some rations, and he set out. He went on foot. The paths would be slippery after the rainfall, and he did not wish to subject the old horse to the slick stone paving the main road that cut through the forest. So he walked on, out past the gates and into the dark forest, keeping close to the path. It would do him no good to get lost, Fenris told himself, especially when the weather was so poor. The rain did not touch him as he walked under the thick canopy, but the chill still cut through his cloak. So cold.

“Stay on the path.” Fenris recited Anders’s words. The roads were safer than anywhere else in the forest, save for the populated areas. Anders said that demons and strange creatures lurked near the paths but often would not dare to attack travelers. Not if they thought they could not win. Instead the tried to lure travelers off the road and into the forest. You must stay on the path, Anders warned him, stay on the path and keep going forward. The forest animals shy away from people and the demons will not step on the road unless they feel you can be beaten.

Fenris knew he would not be beaten. He was a warrior who trained to slay demons in the stadiums of Minrathous. He trained to fight magisters to protect his own master. Fenris knew how to take down a mage and their demons. A demon in the wild was no great threat when he had faced far more powerful foes backed with the power of the mage who summoned them. He could defeat any demon. It was not arrogance on his part, a mere observation based in fact.

Fenris did not expect to run into Dalish hunters while walking the path.

They emerged from the mist, three hunters dressed in the colors of the forest. They moved quietly, more ghost than person, and Fenris recognized them from the tattoos on two of their faces and the symbols stitched and stamped into their clothing. They were the Dalish. They held up their weapons, arrows pointed at the ground at Fenris’s feet.

“Why do you travel through our forest, stranger?” One hunter, obviously the leader, said. He was grim faced and his muscles tense. His dark hair was streaked with silver. The two other hunters were younger, quieter. They kept glancing to the leader for a sign of what to do next. Fenris made no sudden movements. He slowly straightened up and held his hands up. Do not appear to be a threat, he told himself. They will not harm you if you are not a threat. They will not harm you for your honesty.

“I am scouting the forest based on reports of an apostate running through the woods, and possible demon activity.” Fenris said politely. “I mean no harm.”

“Typical shem.” One of the younger hunters, a girl with red braids and blue eyes, snorted. “Can’t be bothered to go in the woods themselves, so they send a city elf to do the dirty work.”

“Not his fault he took the job, Annika.” The lead hunter said with a light, disapproving tone. “Man needs to eat.”

“Or he could be a spy.” The last hunter piped up. “You know how that Shem cleric sends out her spies.” He spat on the ground to illustrate what they thought of the Shem cleric. Kirkwall’s cleric, Fenris realized.

“My name is Fenris. I am from Kirkwall, but I am no spy.” Fenris said hastily when Annika drew her bowstring taut. “I am hunting down demons that prey on travelers on the main road, and listening for any reports of blood mages in the area.”

“They send an elf, because we would kill a Shem.” The older male hunter grumbled. “They grow sneaky. Guard the road.” The young male hunter slunk behind Fenris, keeping a careful eye on his sword. Fenris recognized the way the elf assessed the weapon, and noted that he was the only hunter in the party who held more weapons than a bow and hunting knife. There was a slim sword strapped at his waist, another hunting knife at his thigh, and what looked to be a spear all secure fastened to his person. He was a one person armory.

“With all that metal on your person you had best not set foot on a boat.” Fenris informed the young elf, who scowled and hurried to his position behind Fenris. Annika laughed loudly, tossing her red hair over her shoulder.

“Ohhh, city elf told you!” Annika exclaimed. He turned his scowl on her and clamped his mouth shut. The eldest hunter rolled his eyes, as if exasperated that he had to deal with such immaturity in his hunting party.

“I am your kinsman, however distant the blood may be.” Fenris said hastily. “I wish to speak with the Keeper and the First of Clan Sabrae.” He hoped his plea and the half remembered advice of Isabela and Hawke could save him from being skewered with arrows like a demented pin cushion.

“Oh, invoking Merrill, are we?” Annika was the one scowling now. “That’s what we get, letting our First get friendly with outsiders and shem, now the whole forest will be crawling with ‘em-”

“Annika, enough!” The eldest hunter said sharply before turning his attention to Fenris.

“You are kin, no matter how distant the blood may be. And we have no present quarrel with Kirkwall.” The hunter said calmly.

“Because their Cleric can’t gather enough Templars to have another Exalted March on Sundermount.” The younger male elf grumbled, but he went quiet when the older hunter glared at him.

“We will take you to our First, as our Keeper is visiting another clan and Keeper.” The older elf informed Fenris. “If we believe you to be a threat to us, you will not be permitted to leave.”

“You won’t kill me?” Fenris asked. He was so ready to fight, so ready to protect his life and mourn the deaths of three more people. He had not thought he would be left alive. He was unaccustomed to mercy. This forest was indeed strange, Fenris thought. Enchanted men, mages who did not speak and wove nettles into sweaters, roaming bands of Dalish hunters who captured and did not kill- Fenris wondered if he would come across a unicorn anytime soon.

“Won’t kill our blood if we don’t have too.” Annika said brightly, her cheerful tone somewhat morbid. “You’re a handsome enough fellow, we’ll find a place for you in the clan.” She fluttered her eyelids and peered up at him from under her long eyelashes, an attempt to be coy. Fenris felt no real attraction. She was too young, her face unmarked by the lines of age and the tattoos of her people. And he could still not get the sketch of the relaxed human mage out of his head. There was something in the way the artist captured that slightly lazy, content look that spoke to Fenris. He wanted that peace. He wanted to be at peace.

“Annika, enough.” The young male elf muttered from behind Fenris. “Go chase a younger elf, he’s far too old for you.” Fenris glanced behind him to observe the elf’s mulish expression. His golden eyes scanned the forest, and his skin was walnut brown and marked with pale blue tattoos across his cheeks. His hair was pale, a blond so light it could have been mistaken for silver, and it was hastily tucked up in a pale blue silk scarf. He was young, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, but Fenris was certain the boy would be devastatingly handsome in a few years.

But what shocked Fenris was how much looking at the boy reminded him of his own appearance. They looked similar enough to be mistaken for kin, Fenris thought. The boy could be a far distant cousin. Fenris was fervently thankful that he didn't have to kill these hunters. It would be nice to find a family here, so far from the country of his birth.

“You’re just jealous.” Annika said automatically to her companion. “You keep mooning over that pretty Shem merchant girl and her brother won't let you even come close-”

“Annika! That is private!” The boy yelped, cheeks and ears stained red with embarrassment. The eldest hunter sighed and began to speak with Fenris, ignoring his young companions and their squabbling.

“They are as siblings, these two. He is a cousin of hers, brought into our clan as an apprentice blacksmith.” The hunter explained. “Annika wishes to be a hunter, and we are training her as best we are able.”

“I can shoot and skin any creature in this forest, and I am the best tracker!” Annika announced proudly, but quickly amended her statement. “Well, second best.”

“You certainly snuck up on me quickly. I did not realize I was being followed.” Fenris said. He did not like the idea that he was so easy to track without arousing suspicion. It made him an easy target for the many bounty hunters that no doubt trailed him. Danarius would pay handsomely for his return, a sum that would attract fortune hunters and scum from many corners of the land. Had Fenris grown lazy in such a short time? Had he forgotten how to sense danger, living in Anders’s manor?

“We didn't realize you were here until Annika recognized a bird call that signaled a stranger in the woods.” The boy elf admitted. “This way, if you please. Mind the traps.”

“Bear traps?” Fenris noted a contraption half hidden in the ferns and underbrush. The hideous twisted metal and rows of jagged, sharp teeth meant to ensnare and keep its prey still.

“Demon trap.” The oldest elf explained. “An invention of our First and myself. It is easier to keep the road clear of demons if we discourage them from coming too close.”

“It is a common threat, then.” Fenris wondered if the spirits who lived on Anders’s estate kept the man safe from the demons in the forest. They must, for Anders seemed as harmless as a kitten despite his ferocious appearance. A demon could easily rip through his thick fur and tear at defenseless areas. A demon could easily kill Anders. Fenris was grateful for whatever protection the spirits provided. He did not wish to see his new friend come to any harm.

“Nothing is common in Sundermount. But we have our fair share of demons. No reports of blood mages, but the forest and mountain are vast.” The old hunter explained. “Someone could have snuck past our watch. Ah, but here we are.”

They had reached a clearing in the forest. Someone more generous would have described it as a meadow, but it was neither sunny enough or flower filled enough to be much of a meadow. Fenris observed the sorry looking aravels, caravans with great red sails pulled by halla, and he saw not only the storied past of the clan in every burn, scratch, and stain in the wood, but how hard life was for the Dalish. The people observed him warily, and the boy who looked so similar to him stood to his left, watching carefully.

“I will take your case to our First. Annika, skin your kill and present the meat to the cook. Take the hide to the tanner.” The older elf ordered. “Boy, keep a watch on our guest.” Annika looked as if she was tempted to protest, but the boy did as he was told. A moment later (and with an irritated huff of breath) Annika did the same. The older elf departed into one of the larger aravels and Fenris was left mostly alone, the object of speculation once again.

“You see a lot of Shem in your city, Fenris?” The boy asked, breaking through the whispers and stares to address Fenris directly.

“Yes.” Fenris replied. “I travel a good deal, but I see many humans. Dwarves and qunari as well.” The boy seemed a by more open and eager to speak when he heard Fenris say that he traveled. His golden eyes brightened and Fenris was certain he saw a hint of a smile in his solemn features.

“Ever see a merchant girl, dark hair, dark eyes? Short. With an older brother who looks like he’d gut you.” The boy asked. “Her hair is long, and so dark it could be blue, and she’s very clever.” The boy sounded near sighing at this point, smile on his face turning a battle hardened youth into a simpering lovestruck fool. Love struck. This would spell bad news for the boy when he was finally put on the marriage market, Fenris thought. No proper Dalish girl (or boy) would want a husband who mooned after humans, no matter how remarkable they were.

“I can't say I have seen such a girl, but I do not often go to markets to buy goods.” Fenris replied cautiously.

“She’s pretty, for a Shem.” The boy admitted. “And so clever, and generous! She charged a rich man his entire purse for a bolt of flimsy silk, but gave my uncle three bolts of good, strong linen already dyed red for ten rabbit skins.”

“Sounds as if the silk was more expensive than the linen.” Fenris replied, and the boy scowled.

“The linen was sorely needed and she reduced the price by half.” The boy said defensively. “And I saw her buy a bag of sweets for the camp children before she and her brother moved on in their wagon.”

“That is something.” Fenris said. He didn’t know what it was, but it was something.

“I would like to know her better, but Shem customs are strange.” The boy mumbled, and he reached into a small pouch at his side and pulled out a wooden stick. Not a wooden stick, Fenris realized, but metal and iron wood, carved and forged and blended together to make a swirling ornamental stick carved with blooming vines. Fenris recognized the flowers as a species native to Tevinter. Jasmine.

“It’s a hairpin.” The boy explained, and he tugged at the wood to reveal a thin blade and a tiny wooden scabbard. “A hairpin and a knife. I thought she could use something pretty and useful.”

“That is thoughtful, and well made. It is an appropriate gift.” Fenris said, and the boy beamed. He returned the hairpin to his pouch and opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by a woman’s light, bird like voice. Fenris watched as a young elven woman descended from the nearest aravel, followed by the older hunter. 

She was very young, younger than him, Fenris was certain. Her doe-like eyes were green and surrounded by long dark lashes. Her skin was as pale and delicate as the fine porcelain that Danarius collected and displayed in his home. But she carried herself with the confidence of a leader.

“Is this our visitor?” The woman asked before she turned her attention to Fenris. “Andaran atish’an, newcomer.”

“Yes, Hahren. This is Fenris.” The boy said solemnly, but his golden eyes were alight with mischief and the woman flushed brightly. Her red cheeks seemed even redder when set against her green clothing and bright green eyes. 

“I am not so old to be Hahren, you cheeky boy!” She protested, and the boy scurried off before she could continue scolding him. Merrill turned her attention to Fenris, her gaze clear and intelligent.

“What is your business with the clan, Fenris?” Merrill asked, her expression returning to one more serene and controlled. She seemed like a true leader, someone who could unite people, someone the people would follow. She seemed friendly enough, but Fenris was not willing to test that friendliness by lying to her about why he was here in Sundermount.

“As I told your hunters, I am only scouting the woods for evidence of demons.” Fenris said. “Demons and apostates.” He wondered if he should share more information, and decided against it. He did not wish to bring an angry Dalish clan to Anders’s door once they confirmed he was sent by Kirkwall’s Templar Order. He would keep this to himself, ask for a private meeting with Merrill, and then tell her the truth when there were no more prying ears.

“Plenty of demons wander through the woods and hide in the mountain.” Merrill said cautiously. “But I know nothing of apostates. Our mages are part of the clan, Fenris.” She would say no more, and Fenris heard more whispers. Unfriendly whispers. The clan would not accept strangers, even a fellow elf.

“I am a friend of Garrett Hawke and Varric Tethras.” Fenris said quickly, hoping that Hawke’s travels through the forest and his tales of friendship among the Dalish clans held true. When Merrill’s expression brightened and her posture eased, Fenris knew he said something right.

“You just missed Hawke! Please, come into my aravel! We must have tea and talk!” Merrill exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious. Fenris slowly followed her into the aravel, shutting the red linen flaps closed behind them. Merrill gestured to a fur pelt on the floor next to a low table.

“Please, sit down! I will prepare tea, and you can tell me how you know Hawke even though you’re a mage hunter.” Merrill moved around the aravel like a fluttering bird flying from flower to flower to eat seed and sip nectar.

“Mage hunter?” Fenris repeated.

“Obviously. You must have been hired by Kirkwall’s Knight Commander, the one who dresses up like the Chantry goddess who the humans burnt alive.” Merrill said briskly. “You’re the first to get this far into the forest, most get lost by the entrance. All that clanking armor makes everyone avoid them, then the spirits lead them on a chase until they end up right where they started.” She set a small fire on a burner, and Fenris could not see how she started the fire. But he felt it. Magic. The Keeper and the First were always mages. But how would a Dalish mage know of Kirkwall’s Knight Commander? How did she know of the Chantry, no matter how warped her version of it was?

“You mean Andraste?” Fenris wondered how Merrill knew what Knight Commander Meredith looked like. He had seen how Meredith aspired to appear like Andraste, with her golden hair and star-like helm. But Merrill had not seen her. Or had she?

“Hawke tells me of her, and Isabela drew pictures once. I have them somewhere in here…” Merrill fiddled with a clay teapot filled with water, and dumped a package of what Fenris believed were tea leaves into the pot before she flounced off to rummage through a wooden bin before pulling out a pile of parchment.

“Isabela draws so many things for me!” Merrill said enthusiastically. “Isn’t it lovely? See, here’s Hawke, and Varric, and then there’s her picture of your Templar, Meredith!” She displayed the pictures on the table and sat down across from Fenris. Fenris looked through the pictures slowly. Yes, there was Hawke and Varric, clearly drawn by Isabela. Fenris recognized her drawings. She liked to draw him and tease him, asking him to be still and brood so she could capture his likeness. Fenris did not know how accurate the drawings were. He did not particularly care to look at his reflection.

The picture of Meredith was particularly chilling. Isabela’s illustrations were usually humorous or sexual. Even her sketches of Fenris’s face could be considered a little risque. She enjoyed drawing different versions of his markings as she imagined them on his body, and Fenris let her keep her games. But her Meredith was as accurate as looking at the woman herself. As cold and grim faced as the one in flesh and bone.

“She isn't particularly friendly looking, is she?” Merrill commented. “And her follower looks rather tired.” Fenris noticed that Isabela included a quick sketch of the haggard looking Knight Captain, loyally trudging after Meredith like an abused mabari who must be loyal to its master to the death. He was the one who saw him off at Kirkwall’s gates when he embarked on this journey. He wondered how many men and women Meredith had scouting the forest before she hired Fenris. Fenris wondered how many of those men and women returned to Kirkwall.

“So I am not the first scout.” He said flatly. Meredith had not mentioned that. Fenris knew she had no reason to, but the information would have been good to know. He could have tracked down the others, sought out advice, made plans. But he was sent off on his own. Perhaps it was better this way, he decided. If he had information he may have taken another route, and he would not have run into Anders. 

Anders, a man who needed his help breaking a curse. A man who was rather awkward but charming and considerate, and treated Fenris like his equal. He didn't even seem to hate magic, even though it bound him into a gilded prison like the canaries magisters kept in fine cages of gilt gold and silver. The canaries sang lovely tunes and never flew a day in their lives. Having heard wild canaries, Fenris thought the songs sounded sweeter when the birds were unbound. Anders would be happier if he were un-enchanted and free to leave his manor and this forest. Fenris was certain of it.

“Oh no! The first to meet with us Dalish, though. How is the forest? Have you had any trouble?” Merrill asked politely as she returned her attention to the teapot and its accessories.

“No. I made a friend, and have been staying at their place.” Fenris refused to give up Anders’s location or even his name. He had contact with the Dalish, Fenris knew, but Fenris knew some of Dalish custom. He did not want an overambitious hunter raiding the manor and hunting Anders down for his pelt. He could not have his friend die for a hunter’s trophy.

“It is nice to have friends, isn't it? If you came this far into the forest without getting turned around, you’ve probably met Anders.” Merrill said cheerfully. “Tea is almost done!”

“You know Anders?” Fenris asked.

“Of course I do! He lets me use his library sometimes, and I trade tea with his neighbor! She isn't much of a conversationalist, but her tea is good.” Merrill poured tea out into two wooden mugs and set one down in front of Fenris. “Go ahead and drink, i’m sure I can find travel bread in here somewhere-”

“There is no need to go through so much trouble.” Fenris took a sip of the tea. It was pleasant and flowery. He preferred a strong black tea, or mint. He had a faint memory of drinking mint tea as a child on a sickbed, a memory that came back to him after he was given his markings. He remembered feeling feverish, and a cool hand on his forehead before he was given an earthenware mug and drank that sharp tea of mint and licorice root. There was nothing else to the memory, but Fenris drank mint tea to try and recover more to no avail.

“Nonsense! You are a guest and must be treated as one!” Merrill insisted. “If you put on the same act as Anders does when he visits it will be very difficult to give you a proper Dalish welcome.”

“Anders comes here?” Fenris was surprised, but perhaps he should not have been. Anders visited his neighbor, the lonely mage in her cottage. Why not visit the Dalish too? Was he supposed to stay in his manor? It would save him from demon attacks, Fenris reasoned, but Anders was a man. He should not be locked away like the caged canaries or a prisoner.

“Not too often, but he’ll do a monthly patrol to keep the roads clear of bandits and demons. We all work together in the forest to keep each other safe.” Merrill explained. “We don't expect too much help from Kirkwall or other Sh- I mean human cities.”

“The roads were built by humans, they should be maintained by them as well.” Fenris saw little point in people building objects that could not be used. It reeked of a Tevinter magister’s mindset: collecting oddities and rarities, creating monstrosities that had no purpose other than a display of wealth and power. They created and destroyed on a whim because they could, never questioning if they should.

“Oh, but when they maintain them they send their armies and their Sisters, and they’ll expect us to politely listen to their stories of their goddess that they burned alive.” Merrill retorted.

“Andraste, the Maker’s Bride.” Fenris corrected automatically. Merrill wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something off.

“Are you a believer?” She asked.

“I enjoy listening to the stories.” Fenris confessed. He particularly enjoyed the tales of Andraste and her elven companion and brother in arms, Shartan, leading a slave rebellion. One particular Chantry brother, a man with auburn hair and bright blue eyes, told the tale in a musical voice and with a good deal of enthusiastic fervor. Fenris often wondered what sort of bondage the man escaped from to light such passion within him.

“We Dalish have our own gods and tales. We do not need human ones.” Merrill said, her voice firm. “But Kirkwall thinks differently.”

“I will not deny that the Knight Commander takes her duties on with a certain… zeal.” Fenris thought Meredith pursued her duties with the disturbing eagerness of a magister pushing for advancement within the Magisterium. Sometimes he saw those pale blue eyes and he saw another woman’s eyes in their place- just as cold, just as ruthless, just as cut throat and cruel.

“So it is best to take care of problems ourselves. Anders checks on the roads periodically, his neighbor rides about and takes care of rogue problems, and Clan Sabrae sends out hunters to deal with demons in our region of the woods. Or me, if the problem is more severe than we anticipated. And we can always count on Asha’bellanar to meddle when least expected.” Merrill explained. “So there is no Chantry or Meredith to keep watch over us. We watch ourselves.”

“You seem content here.” Fenris said cautiously. He sensed a restlessness within the First of Clan Sabrae. She seemed far too curious to be satisfied with living in these woods and mountains forever.

“I would like to see the world, but the Clan needs me. And so many people come here that it feels like the world visits us!” Merrill replied, and she settled down with her tea and a plate of what looked to be travel bread, flat and probably baked on a flat, heated up rock over a campfire.

“It isn't much, but it is what we have. Please, enjoy. You can tell me of your travels while we eat.” Merrill said politely. Fenris took a bite of the bread. It was good. Merrill slowly coaxed information from him, though Fenris was tight lipped about his past. But he shared a little: stories about his adventures with Hawke, tales of Varric and Isabela, a few stories of Anders. He complained over the fussiness of the spirits in the manor house, and Merrill told him that they fussed over her as well, trying to shove her in human frills and dresses.

“They did the same to Isabela, but she scared them off.” Merrill sighed. “But they always pick out the biggest dresses for me. I nearly drown in the ruffles!”

Fenris and Merrill spoke for so long that they were both startled when a polite foot stomp sounded from outside the aravel.

“First? You have a visitor.” It was Annika, her loud voice unusually modulated and respectful.

“Oh, another one?” Merrill asked. “Please send them in.”

“Ah, we can't, exactly.” A familiar, rumbling voice said. “I’m a little too big to fit, I’m afraid.”

“Anders?” Fenris called out. Anders came here? Did he come looking for him? Fenris felt guilt tug at his heart. He should have let Anders known where he was going. But he had snooped through Anders’s belongings, he could not bear to face him when he had done something so uncharitable- but he must have upset Anders greatly, having disappeared without a word.

“Fenris? Andraste’s Knickerweasels, Fenris, I thought you had gotten yourself kidnapped by bandits or killed by a bear!” Anders exclaimed. Fenris stood up and crossed the aravel, poking his head out of the canvas and wood covering.

Anders stood upright on his legs, dressed in what Fenris could best describe as battle armor. Unlike his normal attire of enormous dark linen pants and a giant linen shirt, Anders wore a hardened leather breastplate clearly made for a qunari. His shirt was covered by a quilted surcoat of some faded teal fabric. He seemed ready for any attack. Perhaps Fenris was wrong to fear for Anders. He seemed ready for any attack in the woods.

He was a Warden, Fenris told himself. Wardens do not forget how to fight.

“Hello, Anders!” Merrill said cheerfully. “Fenris came to visit and ask about our demon hunts and patrols!”

“Of course he did. How’s your head, Fenris?” Anders asked sweetly, but Fenris sensed the teasing underneath the not so innocent query. Anders always teased Fenris for his overindulgence in his wine, even though provided a cure every morning for the excess alcohol consumption.

“Well enough, Anders. Thank you.” Fenris replied. The breakfast and strong tea Anders had the spirits provide was a better cure than Fenris’s usual potion use. Fenris slowly descended the stairs and stood in front of Anders.

“The spirits told me which direction you marched off to, and I followed.” Anders said lightly. “Perhaps you were still nursing your hangover when Hawke said it, but you should not wander these woods alone! They are dangerous!”

“I am a skilled warrior and can defend myself.” Fenris replied. He was no child and no slave! He could walk where he chose! Fenris could acknowledge that Anders had a good point, but his hackles still rose when he thought of being chained and confined and told where to go and who to go with. He tried to fight it, tried to be reasonable, but he still felt the familiar anger welling up inside him.

“And you’re my friend! I will not let my friends kill themselves because of their own stupidity!” Anders said hotly. “Merrill, Fenris and I must leave now, before nightfall. We’re already risking an attack as is, with the weather.”

“Yes. I should warn you, Clan Alerion’s hunters warned us of a rage demon stalking the northern border. We had no sightings, but as the demon has not been caught and subdued, I thought you should be careful.” Merrill warned. “Do warn your neighbor, it could be dangerous if one of you try to take it on your own.”

“We’ll keep an eye and ear out. Let me know if you need another pair of- well, paws- for the hunt.” Anders replied. “Fenris, we had best head out if we want to return to the manor in time for dinner. Will you join me?”

Fenris was surprised by the question. Before he left Tevinter, he was a follower, being lead to his destinations and following without voicing his opinion. He had no opinions. And when he had left he would start and stop when his body demanded it, a slave to his own body and not his will. But Anders was giving him a choice, when he was rested and had eaten, when he could make a clear decision: stay the night with the Dalish, or return to the enchanted manor house with Anders? And though he was irritated that Anders tracked him down like he was a lost dog, what saved him from feeling like he was being hunted down by slavers was that Anders gave him a choice. So Fenris walked to Anders’s side. He would go.

“Thank you for the tea, Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae.” Fenris said. “I will return with Anders for the evening.”

“Of course. Please come and visit again, Anders, Fenris. It is nice to have company.” Merrill sounded a little wistful then, and Fenris told himself to at least visit again before he returned to Kirkwall. It would not be so bad to learn more of the Dalish. They may not be his people, but they were his kin.

“Goodbye, Merrill.” Anders said before retreating from the camp. Fenris watched how the Dalish hunters seemed to relax once Anders began to leave. Their fear left Fenris with an unpleasant feeling of anger bristling in his stomach. Anders was just a man. A cursed man who stood several heads taller than most men, was covered in thick golden fur, was adorned with the antlers of a magnificent buck, and had claws like knives, but Anders still had the soul and heart of a man. How dare these people act like he was a wild animal! Fenris followed Anders out of the camp as Merrill’s voice floated above them on the breeze.

“May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

They walked in silence for some time, Anders and Fenris, with only the sounds of the woods to accompany them. Anders’s tail swept leaf litter off the road, slowly swishing back and forth. Fenris followed, and hurried his steps to catch up to Anders’s long strides. When they were side by side, Anders finally spoke.

“If you’re planning to run off into the woods again, you could warn me. Talk to me, or at least leave a note before you go.” Anders said, his voice full of disapproval. “Even going into the library and consulting a few books and maps would have been better than just disappearing like you did.”

“I was hardly in danger.” Fenris said, for he could not tell Anders that a book and map were useless to him. Anders was a Warden and worked as a healer. He was a learned man, an intelligent one. If Anders discovered Fenris’s illiteracy, would he treat him with derision or, worse, pity? Fenris could bear cruelty or mockery, though it would hurt. Pity would destroy him. He would rather hide than have Anders’s pity.

“The Dalish are not the greatest danger in these woods, though I wish they were.” Anders retorted. “You were lucky, Fenris. Not everyone is as welcoming as Clan Sabrae.”

“I can protect myself, Anders. I have for a long time now.” Fenris replied. He was no child. Had he not defeated dozens of demons? Had he not destroyed abominations and slavers and bandits for coin and his own safety? He did not need Anders to hold his hand!

“You haven’t been in Sundermount, Fenris.” Anders said firmly. “You don’t know how dangerous it is.”

“I have faced danger many times. I am hardly weak.” Fenris insisted.

“I’m not saying you are. I am telling you that it is dangerous in this forest. You can’t know what hides in it.” Anders sighed. “We’ll just have dinner and I’ll show you where the books are. Then you can do some research.” They rounded the path and entered through the manor gates. Anders was quiet again, and Fenris stewed in anger and self-loathing. There would be no point in staring at leather bound volumes. They would not reveal their mysteries to him. It would be a humiliating waste of time. They entered the foyer, and spirit hands brushed against Fenris’s arms and back, whisking away his cloak and weaponry until he stood in his breastplate while undoing his gauntlets. Anders was taking off his own breastplate, his claws fumbling with the buckles.

“I’ll pull out a travel guide by Genitivi, he tended to write humorous travel logs, but his work is more accurate than most. It’s aged remarkably well.” Anders said. “I think Varric might have borrowed it and misplaced it, or the spirits sorted the shelves differently, but I think I can scrounge up the damned thing for you to read-”

“It will be a fruitless endeavor, Anders.” Fenris finally retorted, perhaps harsher than he meant it to be.

“What? I’m sure I can find it, and it will be… useful…” Anders’s voice trailed off as he stared down at Fenris. Fenris wanted to lower his head, avoid looking into those lamp like eyes, but that was the action of a slave. He was not a slave. He should not feel shame for the circumstances of his life. But yet he still felt it.

“I’m an insensitive idiot.” Anders muttered. “You’re not so rude that you wouldn’t leave a note if you could.”

“A slave does not know how to read or write. I never learned.” Fenris said shortly. He waited for the pity, because he knew in his heart that Anders would not mock him for this failing. Yet once again, Anders surprised him.

“We will take our meal in the library.” Anders addressed the spirits in the room. “If it is no trouble, could our meal be moved there while Fenris and I dress in more comfortable clothing?” Fenris felt the rush of air and heard the tinkle of bells after Anders’s request. The spirits were eager to follow Anders’s commands.

“I would like to apologize for being an utter idiot.” Anders said. “But we now have quite a lot of work to do, so we’ll have to change quickly. The library is down the main hall, two doors down on the left side.” Anders finally got his breastplate off and handed it to a spirit.

“Excuse me?” Fenris asked. Work? What sort of work would they be doing? It was sunset now, and they were surely both exhausted and hungry. And what sort of work could be done in a library?

“I’m going to teach you how to read and write.” Anders announced. “What’s been done to you is- it’s an injustice, that’s what it is! And someone has to undo it and I’m the only one around.”

Fenris could only stare at Anders. He would have been less surprised if Anders suddenly grew two heads or turned into a frog. Reading lessons. The only person who knew he could not read was Varric, and he never offered to teach him. Varric was gone from the city much of the time, but he had never thought to even suggest that Fenris take lessons. Yet here was Anders, insisting on giving him lessons, taking the time and not allowing for any delay. Fenris would no longer live in ignorance. Danarius had taken great care to keep his prize slave in a gilded cage and iron shackles, and his most powerful snares were his words. Fenris had no one else to turn to for information when he was a slave. He could not read a book or ask another person their opinion on a subject. Danarius was the truth and keeper of the truth. Fenris only listened and obeyed. But Anders would change that. He would tear away the lingering control Danarius had on him. Fenris did not know what to say. Words seemed insufficient when compared to this gift Anders was offering him.

“Unless you don't want to. I know it’s a bit awkward, and you are probably tired.” Anders said hastily, wringing his massive paws together. “The Dalish camp is a long way from here. If you just want to sleep I understand-”

“No!” Fenris protested. Reading. He was going to learn to read. It would make his work that much easier, it would make hiding and keeping away from Danarius’s hunters so much simpler. It would make him free.

“I wish to learn. I would be deeply grateful if you would teach me.” Fenris said solemnly. When Anders grinned, displaying his fangs, Fenris smiled back.

“You can change into some warmer clothes if you want.” Anders said. “I’ll just go to the library and gather some books.” Anders went down the hall and disappeared into the library, and Fenris hurried up the stairs to his room. He hastily undressed and put on what the spirits set out for him, brushing off their fussing and leaving his shirt partially unlaced at the front. Reading. He was going to learn how to read! Fenris vowed to find a way to restore Anders’s human shape. It was the least he could do to repay Anders for his consideration and care. Fenris nearly skipped down the hallway, his heart swooping and gliding like a canary taking flight, finally free from its cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't write a post-Disney Beauty and the Beast without including a library.
> 
> I also included a minor cameo of one of my favorite video game characters from another franchise. Can anyone guess who it is?
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and I'll try to get these chapters out faster! Thank you again!


	6. A Charm of Good Fortune and A Half Dozen Swans

Watching Fenris read was quickly becoming one of Anders’s favorite pastimes. There was great pleasure to be found in watching someone grow, seeing the light bloom in their eyes when the pieces of a puzzle finally fit together and they understood what they were trying to discover. Fenris’s eagerness to learn and appetite for knowledge was infectious, and Anders found himself pulling out books and tomes he had not read since he was in the Circle. Fenris was a dedicated student, and Anders wanted to become a better teacher for him.

Anders could not deny that watching Fenris read provided another sort of pleasure entirely. Fenris was a handsome man, slim and strong with a face made up of harsh angles and surprising softness. He was a mess of contradictions, dark skin and pale hair, sharp cheekbones and soft lips, fierce green eyes that could turn harsh at one moment and misty with memories at the next. Anders felt his heart leap to his throat whenever he stumbled upon Fenris reading. Now that he had the basics, Fenris was devouring books at a positively tremendous rate. Anders found Fenris reading books in the library, curled up on a window seat surrounded by papers with his name scrawled out on the sheets. Fenris could be found reading in the parlor, legs slung over the arm of an overstuffed chair as he slowly read and sipped his wine. The spirits complained about the many books Fenris stashed under his bed, a small dragon’s horde of knowledge he kept hidden. Anders did not ask why Fenris hid the books, or why he quickly put his reading down whenever Anders entered the room. It was Fenris’s business, and Fenris would let him know it if and when the time was right.

As if he wished to return the favor of reading lessons (or perhaps to avoid arguments), Fenris insisted on making his patrols through the woods with Anders by his side. Whatever the reason was, Anders appreciated the gesture. Their walks were a joy. Fenris was a quiet companion, but he didn't seem to mind Anders’s chatter. He listened, and would gravely give his input. Fenris was not always serious, though. On one of their walks Anders did not pay attention to where he was stepping and the pads of his left hind leg sunk into an enormous pile of horse shit. Fenris snickered and then dryly declared “Oh no. It seems you’ve stepped in the poopie.” The two of them giggled like schoolboys, and repeated the phrase with all the solemnity of a Chantry Mother giving a sermon. You have stepped in the poopie, Messere Anders. How will you proceed?

It was hilarious.

Anders was in the library doing his own light reading (researching different ingredient combinations for new potions) when Fenris burst into the room clutching a pile of books to his chest and his eyes bright with excitement.

“Anders! I believe I know how to break your curse!” Fenris declared, a smile on his face and a bounce to his step that Anders found endearing. Fenris dropped the books on Anders’s desk and hopped up to sit next to the books. Anders could only stare up at him and wonder how a man as beautiful as Fenris could also be so cavalier about furniture. When given the option, Fenris slouched and slumped in chairs, sat on tables, was generally a bit sloppy. 

And even now, wearing lightly wrinkled leggings, rolled up shirt sleeves, laces half undone, hair falling out of its tie, Fenris was still beautiful.

“You and your mage who cursed you, you have approached the problem wrong!” Fenris said excitedly. “You were thinking of simple spellcraft, and curses are different!” Fenris gestured at the top book on the stack. It was a volume of fairy tales bound in red linen.

“Fenris. Those are fairy tales.” Anders said. Was Fenris teasing him? But there was no teasing light in his eyes or lilt in his voice. He was serious, yet excited. There was an energy within him that Anders couldn’t help but be drawn to.

“They are also a rather detailed logs of curses.” Fenris argued. “There are many types of magic, and some truths become stories, then fairy tales.” Fenris flipped to a page within the book and tapped at it.

“Miss Sits in Ashes.” Fenris said patiently. “Tell me her story.” He looked at Anders expectantly with those great green eyes. Anders sighed and recited the popular children’s story.

“Little Ella lived a happy life as a merchant’s daughter, or a minor nobleman, or whatever rich version. Her mother was dead but she and her papa had a happy family. But he thought his daughter needed female guidance in her life, so he remarried a widow with two daughters Little Ella’s age.” Anders said, remembering bits of the tale from his mother, others from the Circle, a particularly bawdy one he heard from Oghren when he was a Warden.

“Then her father died.” Fenris prompted. “And Little Ella was made a servant in her house.”

“One day she wished to attend a grand ball held for the prince. Either he was looking for a wife, or he was celebrating his birthday, or perhaps it was just a grand ball, but he was celebrating and insisted on inviting all the women in the kingdom.” Anders found that part of the story particularly irritating. What if the prince had a male true love? Why was it always the young maidens who were invited?

“But Little Ella, now called Sits-In-Ashes, was kept busy so she could not prepare and attend the ball.” Fenris took over the story. “She was left alone to sort through a pile of lentils left in the ashes where she made her bed every night. But what happened next, Anders?”

“A fairy godmother showed up.” Anders replied. The tale was old and as well known as the back of his paws, but Fenris’s eager prodding brought new life to the story.

“Exactly. We come to the magic of the tale.” Fenris stated. “What did the godmother do?”

“She enchanted a pumpkin into a coach, transformed mice into horses, and turned rags into a ball gown and glass slippers. Or silk slippers, or gold slippers. There’s a Navarran version where the slippers are made of dragon scales.” Anders listed the spells, and Fenris smiled.

“In Tevinter, the slippers are obsidian and lyrium, enchanted to only fit the girl for whom they were made.” Fenris said. “But now think of magic and how mages use it. Can a pumpkin become a coach if a mage uses magic?”

“Well, theoretically, I suppose so?” Anders mused. “It would have to be a large pumpkin, with a few growth enchantments and creation magic to transform it properly. But I… perhaps it could be done.” Fenris had made his point. As ridiculous and disgustingly slimey as it would be, a pumpkin could be transformed to be a coach.

“Exactly.” Fenris said proudly. “And a mage could transform lizards to horses with creation magic, could they not?”

“Or they could summon spirits, or demons with blood magic, or have the carriage pull itself down the road.” Anders retorted. “I hardly see the point.”

“The magic in fairy tales is not nearly so fantastically impossible if you think on it. Sits in Ashes could have a pumpkin coach transformed by a mage using creation magic. Ladder locks could be trapped in her bower surrounded by enchanted thorns using creation or blood magic.” Fenris insisted. “You have been looking at your curse from the wrong perspective. I have read as many tales of transformation as I could find.”

“Is this what you’ve been reading all this time, Fenris?” Anders asked softly. Fenris had been looking at fairy tales for him, hoping to find clues to turn him human again, working so hard to help him. Anders felt tears in his eyes, and quickly wiped them away with the back of his paw. Fenris quietly handed him a worn down crimson silk handkerchief, and Anders wiped his tears away.

“You have given me shelter and taught me to read. I thought I would use what you gave me to help you.” Fenris said, his voice kind and gentle. “The transformation stories are difficult to get through. Many do not have happy endings.”

“Yes, I am aware.” Many transformed men were given their original form as they lay dying. Anders hoped his curse did not require his death to break.

“Others require putting on clothing and acting as a person would, but you already do so.” Fenris gestured to Anders to illustrate his point. “And you have tried potions and spells already.”

“Everything Velanna could think of, and then some.” Anders confessed. He and Velanna thought of everything, creation magic, enchantments, nearly everything! Velanna was willing to use blood magic and force him through a transformation, but Anders refused. He would not hold with blood magic. He would rather remain a beast than break his vow as a healer.

“But you did not think of it in terms of a fairy tale.” Fenris replied. “What sort of tale would yours be, Anders?”

“If I had to say, I suppose… well, I suppose it is the Orlesian tale The Beast and The Maiden.” Anders murmured. “Though that would cast you as…” He could not finish the thought out loud, but he certainly thought of it. Romance. Love. Love transformed the Beast into a Man again, and then there was a happy ending. The love of a beautiful maiden changed the Beast.

“As the maiden, I know.” Yet Fenris smiled when he said it, as if the implications did not alarm him. As if he was comfortable. Satisfied.

“You know what that means, right? You read the story!” Anders squeaked. Fenris wasn’t serious, Anders thought. It was obviously just conjecture. He didn’t mean it! He was only throwing out suggestions, possibilities. He didn’t mean what he was implying, not at all! But Fenris shrugged.

“I would marry you.” Fenris said simply. Anders was speechless.

“You are kind. Considerate. Patient. All good qualities in a life mate.” Fenris continued, listing Anders’s virtues. “You make me laugh. It is a rare skill, to make me laugh.”

“You know very little about me, Fenris. You don’t even know what I look like!” Anders protested. “You might not even find me attractive. Marriage is a very bad idea if you aren’t physically compatible.”

“Sex is unnecessary.” Fenris said shortly. “It is messy and unpleasant, we do not have to engage in such activities.” His eye had gone dark with anger and hurt, but it seemed like a distant hurt that haunted him. Fenris was a slave, Anders reminded himself. He claimed he was a bodyguard, a warrior, but he had said he was a plaything. There were many kinds of playthings. Anders knew that well.

“Fenris, that is exactly why you shouldn’t offer to marry me.” Anders said gently. His heart hurt to think that Fenris had suffered so much that he considered physical expressions of affection unpleasant. When he was human, Anders turned to sex to fill the loneliness inside of him. He tried to drown in physical sensation. But Fenris wanted to be alone. There was more than one way to heal, Anders supposed.

“I consider you my friend, Anders.” Fenris said firmly. “If marrying you would return your humanity, I would do it.” There was a tremor in his voice, a trembling that suggested fear, but Fenris recovered enough to sound firm and committed to this wild scheme.

Anders could not allow it.

“Fenris, that is the kindest offer I have ever been made.” Anders said, and it was the absolute truth. No one had ever offered to marry him to protect him, or help him, or anything really. Anders could think of several occassions in his life where a marriage, false or otherwise, would have helped him out of a tricky situation. But it was Fenris who was offering, beautiful, troubled Fenris. It was a burden Fenris should not bear.

“But I think the intent of that particular curse is about love. We are friends, I like to think, and you like me well enough.” Anders tried to explain it gently. “But I don't think liking is enough. And I can't expect you to force yourself to live with me when it doesn't work out.”

“I could learn to love you.” Fenris pointed out, and Anders’s heart nearly fluttered out of his chest. Fenris was so earnest looking, his eyes wide and clear, his expression resolute and guileless. I could learn to love you too, Anders wanted to say. He kept the words locked up and said something else.

“Fenris, no. I won't have you forcing yourself to do anything you are uncertain about.” Anders was firm, but he tried for lightness when Fenris frowned. “And besides, you probably only want to marry me for the wine collection.”

“Not true.” Fenris retorted, but he finally cracked a smile. “I will also marry you for the library.” Anders hesitantly returned the smile, his heart resting somewhere closer to his chest.

“And here I thought it was for the wine cellar.” Anders joked, but he was still wary. “I don’t want you to force yourself to do this, Fenris. You needn’t tie your life to mine if you don’t wish it.”

“I understand your concern.” Fenris acknowledged. “But it upsets me to know that I can do nothing to help you.”

“You've done more than anyone else.” Anders assured him, touched by Fenris’s concern. “I- well, wait here a moment.” Anders leapt out of his enormous writing chair and bounded over to a curio cabinet. He opened one of the glass doors and carefully plucked out his prize before returning to the desk and Fenris. He deposited an old iron charm into Fenris's hand.

“It’s a protection amulet. Old tradition in the Anderfels. You carve out runes and get a dwarven smith or a Chantry Sister or a mage to bless the little thing.” Anders used a claw to trace the crude markings carved onto the round disk that was about the size of Fenris’s thumbnail. It hung on a leather cord so it could be wrapped around a weapon or a shield bearing arm.

“This one will either imbue your weapon or person with a little more sturdiness. Magic won't be nearly as effective.” Anders informed him as Fenris turned the little charm over and over in his hands.

“Who blessed this amulet?” Fenris asked. Anders debated lying. There were plenty of stories he could tell, most of them believable. But Anders told the truth, a version that Fenris could stomach.

“A mage.” Anders said. “Warden mage. You wouldn't believe the fights Wardens get into. Bolstering all defenses is a good idea. And it works, with no ill effects. At least it should give you some good luck.” Anders used his own charm on his staff plenty of times, and no one vocally teased him for being so self-centered as to carve and bless an Anderfellean courting charm for himself. But now he was giving it to Fenris. Now it would work as intended.

“Is it your Velanna’s work?” Fenris asked as he gazed askance at the token.

“No, someone else.” Anders murmured. “You don't have to take if, I understand-” As he spoke Fenris unknotted the leather cord and slipped it around his neck.

“It will be useful, and you vouch for its effectiveness. I see no point in rejecting a well meant gift.” Fenris said. His face softened as he ran the pad of his thumb over the carved metal.

“Thank you, Anders.” Fenris added. “I like it.”

“Well, uh, I’m glad you like it!” Anders said. Fenris was wearing his charm, his courting charm, and had said thank you! It was just a protection amulet, and it only meant courtship in the Anderfels, but it still made Anders’s heart flip and flutter about.

“Perhaps we should speak with Merrill about my theory.” Fenris suggested as he fiddled with the protection amulet. “She may have some insight. The Dalish have stories of curses, they may know something about yours.”

“It is a good idea, but Merrill’s camp is hours away on foot.” Anders also disliked going into the Dalish camp. Clan Sabrae’s Keeper and First accepted him as a friend, but the other Dalish were wary of his presence. He didn’t want to deal with the staring and awkwardness again, not right now.

“Perhaps so.” Fenris murmured. “It would be nightfall by the time we return, and the paths are more dangerous than they were these past few days.” Anders knew Fenris was observant. Anyone who escaped slavery and survived like Fenris had would have to be aware of their surroundings. But Anders hadn’t realized that Fenris sensed the same danger he had these past few days.

“But speaking with someone else could be useful.” Anders murmured. Fenris had a decent theory, and Anders would like to bounce ideas off somebody. It would be dangerous to discuss magic around Fenris. Every time he did Anders feared slipping and telling Fenris everything. He could reasonably explain his knowledge of magic through a combination of Warden experience and curiosity, but Anders knew these explanations couldn’t hold forever.

“Why not your neighbor?” Fenris suggested. “She may not speak, but she may have some insight.”

“That is an idea.” Anders agreed. It would be no use keeping Fenris inside today, it seemed. They were fated to set off on some sort of adventure.

“Should we bring the books, or offer for her to come and visit here?” Anders asked. Fenris tilted his head slightly to the left, his hair softly flowing over his shoulder like a river of white.

“We should extend an invitation.” Fenris decided. “She hosted us, it is only fair to return the favor.”

“It also spares us from having to carry all those books through the woods and back.” Ander joked, and he felt himself grin like a fool when Fenris laughed.

“Yes, there is that.” Fenris replied, and he hopped off the desk. “I will dress myself for travel. The woods have seemed strange of late.”

“Yes.” Anders said, the cheer in the room evaporating as he thought of how the forest outside the manor grounds had become more sinister in the past few days. The birds did not sing. The squirrels and rabbits hid in their dens and burrows. Things lurked in the shadows, stalked in the mists, and there were eyes. Eyes always watching. Nothing attacked, not yet, but someone, something, they were watching.

“I will meet you in the foyer in an hour, Fenris.” Anders said. “Bring your sword. We might not run into anything more dangerous than a nug, but we shouldn't take chances.”

Anders took his time preparing for the walk to the Hedgewitch’s cottage. It wasn't easy to arm himself properly. All the staffs were like toothpicks in his paws, so he just had to rely on his claws as weapons. His thick fur was not a replacement for enchanted robes, but he had a hardened druffalo hide cuirass that fit reasonably well. He slung a large bag across his body and dumped his stash of potions into it. Better safe than sorry, Anders reasoned. He took the steps two at a time, the marble cool and comforting under the pads of his paws. He had to duck under a doorway to enter the hall. His antlers still banged against wood. It may just be bone, but it still hurt!

Fenris was already in the foyer, carefully strapping on his gauntlets. His sword was hung up on a weapons rack in the hall, a rack the spirits insisted on keeping polished as if it was some fine antique table and not something made of boring oak wood for practical use. Fenris’s cloak was already fastened and his breastplate cleaned. He even tied his hair back into a warrior’s bun. He looked ready to step into battle, and Anders wondered how many fights Fenris had faced to be able to dress and arm himself so quickly.

“Your spirits insisted on a warmer cloak.” Fenris muttered when he caught sight of Anders, and Anders realized that the red wool cloak Fenris was wearing was not the drab olive green he usually wore. This one did look warmer, but it also looked a good deal more elaborate than practical.

“I think they like dressing people up.” Anders admitted. “They don't have much that fits me, so it’s a treat to have a guest.”

“Are they Orlesian spirits?” Fenris asked, and Anders wasn't certain if he was joking or not. Perhaps it was because Anders often wondered the same thing. The spirits seemed to have a deep love for pomp and ceremony, and were greatly put out when Anders roamed around in ragged clothing, dropping potion ingredients everywhere.

“They do like their ruffles.” Anders joked before turning to address one of the spirits, the one who Anders was certain ran the place like a rather stuffy head butler or steward.

“We’ll be gone for the afternoon to visit a neighbor. Keep an eye on the borders of the estate, Fenris and I both sensed something unpleasant lurking there.” Anders said. A deep, bell like chime indicated that the head spirit understood Anders’s request, and would obey.

“If we leave now, perhaps we can return before sunset.” Fenris urged, glancing towards the door. He was eager to go, Anders mused, and he wondered why Fenris was so ready to discuss magic with the Hedgewitch. His heart fluttered at the thought that Fenris wanted to help him, that his proposal was serious, that Fenris liked and cared for him. Anders crushed those thoughts down. Fenris is a good person, he told himself. That is why he wishes to help you. Nothing more.

“We had best be off, then.” Anders replied quickly, killing the blossoming hope in his heart. He followed Fenris out of the manor and told himself to be reasonable. Fenris was being kind and showing him pity because he thought Anders was a normal man who was cursed. He would not be so welcoming if he knew what Anders really was.

The woods were darker than usual. Anders could see well enough, but it was certainly different. The shadows seemed thicker, more dangerous than shadows should be. And there were eyes, eyes watching every movement, eyes that tracked and waited for darkness to fall. Soon they could walk the paths, soon they could rend flesh and break bone, soon blood would fill their mouths and they would feed. Soon, as soon as the sun sunk past the tree line. Soon.

“Something is watching.” Fenris muttered, and Anders pulled himself away from the feeling of wrongness in the forest to pay attention to Fenris. His shoulders were tense and he glanced to the shadows. The lyrium embedded in his skin flickered like pale fire.

“Yes. Pretend you haven't noticed it, it may grow cocky. Take a risk in the daylight.” Anders suggested. Spirits may be powerful, but they had failings. Weaknesses. And a demon was like any spirit, really. It could grow arrogant in its power. It could make mistakes. Tricking a demon into making a mistake could save them both a difficult battle. It could save their lives.

“Darkspawn?” Fenris murmured, and Anders barely shook his head.

“No. It is not Darkspawn.” Anders replied. Not dangerous like Darkspawn. There was no contamination, no scraping in his head, no dryness in his mouth or voices echoing through him, tempting him to turn to darkness. What lurked in the shadows was not a Darkspawn or its kin. It was something else, something cunning that knew it had to wait for a moment to strike.

“Should we go forward if we will only bring danger to your neighbor.” Fenris said firmly. Anders shook his head.

“She put up barriers around the house. Her cottage is one of the safer places in this forest.” Anders would normally have no fear chasing after a demon in the woods, hunting it down and destroying it. But he was now with Fenris. Even though he was certain Fenris was capable, Anders could not trust himself to not draw his magic to keep Fenris safe. He would summon fireballs from the sky, or arc lightning into spirit shadow, or summon spirits to help him heal wounds. And one he did that he would reveal his powers, and Fenris would leave him. He would kill him and leave him, Anders corrected himself. Fenris could never let him live if he knew what Anders was.

“I do not like putting her in danger. Especially with a demon.” Fenris said firmly.

“She’s fought demons before and won.” Anders pointed out. “That’s what mages do in Circles. They train to kill demons and prove that they’re incorruptable.”

“No one is incorruptable.” Fenris said grimly. They remained silent as they walked for some time. Anders was certain that Fenris was speaking of his past, of Tevinter. He must have seen blood magic every day. He must have experienced it constantly. He must have seen mages turn abomination and give themselves to demons every day. No wonder Fenris had so little faith, Anders thought.

“Well, I don’t think you’d take a demon’s offer.” Anders said brightly. Fenris grunted in response.

“You do not know for certain.” Fenris finally said, and he would have continued to speak if they had not heard a sound. A bird sound, the first they had heard during their long walk. Multiple bird sounds. Angry bird sounds, from large birds.

“Geese?” Fenris suggested, but Anders shook his head. He knew the sound of these birds.

“Swans.” Anders said decisively. “We should hurry.” Anders took long strides, and Fenris moved swiftly to keep up with him. They burst into the clearing where the cottage stood, and they stared at the sight before them.

Anders was right to assume that the bird sounds came from swans. Six large, beautiful, snowy white swans honked and hissed at the base of a giant pine tree at the edge of the clearing. The Hedgewitch stood back, clutching a broom in her hands, her dark hair falling out of her braid and her rust colored dress wet up to her knees. Anders saw that she was barefoot, autumn grass sticking to her golden skin. She glared up into the branches of the pine tree, and Anders saw that in her dark eyes she was afraid.

“Ah, hello!” Anders called out softly, and the woman jumped like a startled rabbit. She turned around and let out a short huff of breath that sounded like a mix of irritation and relief. It was surprising to learn that a simple sigh could be so expressive.

“You seem to be having trouble.” Anders said gently. “Do you need help?” The Hedgewitch’s lips thinned, but she shook her head to indicate that she needed no assistance. Fenris snuck closer to the tree and the hissing swans to peer up into the branches.

“I promise I won’t harm you, miss!” A chillingly familiar voice called down from the pine tree. “Will you call off your swans?” Anders remembered that voice, a man’s voice. He had mocked and imitated the voice often enough when he was in the Circle, copying the intonation and accent of a younger man, a devout man, a Ferelden country boy a bit too old to start his training as a Templar, one of his jailors in those walls-

“Knight Captain Cullen?” Fenris called up to the tree, startling a few of the closer swans. “Is that you?”

“Are you the mercenary the Knight Commander hired? Fenris?” Cullen shouted back. The pine boughs kept him from Anders’s view, but the voice and the man were the same. Anders was sure of it. The Hedgewitch stepped closer and closer to Anders, and half hid her body behind his bulk. Fear. The young woman who seemed to fear nothing (Anders saw her dispatch bandits with nary a blink) was petrified of a Templar stuck in her tree. And the Templar in her tree was held captive by the many sharp, biting beaks of a half dozen swans. It appeared to be a stalemate.

Thank the Maker for swans, Anders thought.

“Yes.” Fenris called back. “What are you doing in Sundermount’s forest?”

“Perhaps it will be easier to tell you when I have two feet on the ground.” Cullen said, but the swans honked and hissed louder, as if in protest. Fenris glanced back to Anders and the Hedgewitch.

“I know him. He is honorable.” Fenris declared. Anders could not deny that the man he knew when he was in the Circle was an honorable man as far as Templars went. He was fair enough, believed that mages were people, treated everyone on their own merit, was terribly flustered when one of the mages, a pretty girl named Amell, flirted with him. Ser Cullen did not press his advantages on anyone. But Anders heard rumors, rumors of demons and blood magic and his former Circle overrun, and that the few survivors were never quite the same. And Ser Cullen now resided in Kirkwall and served Meredith, a well known mage hater. He might not be the Ser Cullen who blushed and stuttered and ran away from pretty girls. He might be very different.

“I will not have him causing trouble in these woods.” Anders said firmly.

“I will vouch for him. He will do no harm.” Fenris replied. “And if he irritates you you may set your birds on him.” Fenris said the last bit to the Hedgewitch, who only hunched into herself and tried to hide further behind Anders. But she clapped her hands sharply, and the swans turned and waddled towards her and Anders. Anders held himself perfectly still as the swans swarmed the Hedgewitch and affectionately nibbled at her skirts and butted their heads against her legs. One of the smaller swans flew up into her arms and she cuddled it close to her chest. The swans ignored Anders completely in favor of comforting the girl behind him. Meanwhile, with the swans distracted, Cullen clambered down from the pine tree. Anders stifled a laugh behind his paw. He remembered the Cullen he knew, fastidious and clean cut and serious, and the image before him was quite different from his memory.

This Ser Cullen, Knight Captain Cullen, looked nothing like the Ser Cullen Anders knew in Kinloch. Ser Cullen was clean shaven and fresh faced, baby fat clinging to his cheeks. He was bright eyed and his armor was always polished. His crimson wool tabard (or velvet, for formal occasions) was always pressed and clean. This one- this Knight Captain Cullen- was a stranger. He was older now, face lean and eyes tired. Anders could see the hints of prolonged lyrium use etched into the man’s face, and he could only feel pity for what surely haunted the man every day. Looking upon Knight Captain Cullen’s face was upsetting. Anders could not deny it. But watching Cullen attempt to straighten up his uniform was humorous.

His golden hair was full of pine needles and looked more like a bird’s nest than curls. His face was slightly scratched up from the branches, and his armor was scuffed and covered in sap. The less said about his crimson wool tabard the better. Cullen bent down at the base of the tree to retrieve his sword, which must have fallen when he clambered up the branches to avoid the sharp beaks of the Hedgewitch’s swans. The swans clustered up around the Hedgewitch and spread out their wings, forming a snowy white, feathery barrier between her and Cullen. The hissed angrily and the Hedgewitch placed the swan in her arms on the ground before clapping sharply at them. Cullen looked towards her, saw Anders, and reached for his sword. Anders prepared for a charge, but he did not expect Fenris.

“He is safe.” Fenris said firmly. “Keep your blade in its sheath.”

“That is-” Cullen began to protest. Anders saw the fear in his brown eyes, but he saw the determination, the courage. He might be a Templar, he might serve Meredith, he might have become something new and a bit frightening, but under it all Anders recognized the man in front of him. He wasn’t truly gone.

“He was cursed by a mage to look as a beast.” Fenris interrupted. “He is a man and harmless. Stay your hand.”

“Unfortunate, really.” Anders called out. “My dashing good looks are forever spoiled by stag antlers and a kitten face.”

“I have not heard of such curses.” Cullen said cautiously.

“It is common enough in my homeland. The woman is cursed as well. She cannot speak, and must care for the swans. I can only guess at the enchantment that was lain on her.” Fenris replied, and Anders could only stare. Fenris had lied. He had lied to protect the Hedgewitch from a Templar’s irons.

Perhaps he could not let Fenris marry him out of a sense of duty, but Anders would marry Fenris in a heartbeat after that display of charity.

“That certainly explains the magic I felt when I entered the forest. The air is thick with enchantments.” Cullen said, and he slowly approached Anders and the Hedgewitch. The Hedgewitch took a step back, and the swans stretched out their necks and hissed an inharmonious warning chorus. Cullen halted his approach, and the swans stopped hissing.

“It has been an adventure.” Fenris replied dryly. “Though I fail to see why you are here, Knight Captain. Surely Commander Meredith keeps you busy.”

Cullen shrugged his shoulders. “In a word, it was guilt.” He replied. “I sent you, a stranger, to perform a task that I should have done myself. I decided to scout parts of the forest and chart them, discover where you were, and send you back with payment for your assistance. My plans, as you see, went awry.”

“As the best laid plans often do.” Anders muttered, and the Hedgewitch shuffled close to him to elbow his side. Because she was so small, and he was so large, her elbow smashed into his hip, not his gut. “That hurt!” He exclaimed.

“I have seen no apostates in the forest. The only mage I have spoken with was Clan Sabrae’s First.” Fenris said. It was not a lie, Anders realized. The Hedgewitch never spoke.

“Merrill also said that the clan has been tracking down a demon in the woods.” Anders added. “She asked us to warn you, keep an eye out and stay in the sunlight.” He spoke to the Hedgewitch, who nodded and gestured to the northern woods, where the underbrush was thickest.

“So there is a blood mage in these woods.” Cullen muttered, his gaze fixed on the shadows in the trees.

“None of us have seen or felt blood magic.” Anders said. “Sometimes the demons slink off in battles, hide in the crevices of the mountain and the hidden places of the forest. And the Veil is thin here. So many spells and summonings, you know.” Anders fought the temptation to ask Cullen personal questions, to dig into what he had been up to these past years, to find out more. He successfully kept his mouth shut, but Cullen still looked him over. He looked into his eyes and seemed puzzled.

“You are certainly knowledgeable, ser.” Cullen said cautiously.

“I was a Warden.” Anders said hastily. “Relocated here after the curse, keep an eye on demon activity while mapping out the Deep Roads above ground. Might as well be useful while I’m here, right?” Cullen did not ask any more questions, but he looked behind Anders to stare at the Hedgewitch. Anders could have sworn the man flushed for a moment before returning his features to a solemn, grim expression.

Perhaps the man had not changed as much as Anders feared.

“I am sorry I startled you, miss.” Cullen said gravely. “You have nothing to fear from me.” The Hedgewitch only took a small step back, swans at the ready.

“I will continue my search and hunt down the demon.” Fenris interrupted the rather tense moment. “I suggest you return to Kirkwall and bolster the city defenses, Knight Captain.”

“A good idea.” Cullen acknowledged. “But I do not approve of leaving a young woman alone in these woods.” He peered back to the Hedgewitch, who had been shuffling her way back towards her cottage. When she saw Cullen staring at her she stopped moving and glared at him, her dark eyes narrow and ferocious. Even Anders was a little afraid of the tiny woman. If looks could kill, Cullen would have dropped to the dirt by now.

“I can escort you to the city, miss. It is not safe to remain in these woods with a demon lurking. The winter will be cold, and no one should be alone in these woods in the winter. It will be safer in Kirkwall.” Cullen offered. “I can escort you and your birds into the city. You will not be harmed.” 

Yes. That fumbling, blushing Ferelden country boy was still lurking under that cold Templar exterior. Anders couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that Kinloch’s fall and Kirkwall’s Templars hadn’t destroyed the man completely. He still seemed to care, even under that mage hating exterior.

The Hedgewitch did not seem to care for Cullen’s overtures. She stomped away to her cottage and slammed the door shut. Her swans had followed her, and the meadow fell silent after the echo of the door shutting faded into the forest.

“Telling a woman who lives alone in the woods to come with you to a strange city may not be the best way to convince them you mean no harm.” Anders said snarkily, and he heard Fenris’s chuckle.

“Perhaps you are right, Warden.” Cullen muttered. “Fenris, I will go to Kirkwall and warn the guards of the demon in the woods. If you track and kill it, I will ensure that Meredith pays you in full.”

“A bargain is a bargain.” Fenris agreed. “I hope she will see her end through.”

Anders knew the Commander must have promised Fenris gold, but in his time with the elf Anders learned that wealth did not tempt Fenris. He was more interested in the immaterial. He thought of Fenris’s simple thank you for a warm meal and a soft bed the night he arrived. He thought of Fenris’s gratitude when Anders taught him to read and write. No, Meredith did not offer him wealth. Anders was certain of it.

She may lust for power, Fenris had said, but she would fight to keep a magister out of the city.

Was that Fenris’s price? Track down apostates, and be free from his former master forever? It would be a powerful prize for Fenris’s loyalty. But what compelled Fenris to lie and protect the Hedgewitch? He had no reason to lie to Cullen, but he had. At least, he had omitted the full truth.

“I will see it done.” Cullen promised, and when he whistled a chestnut red stallion trotted into the meadow. He mounted easily and fixed Anders with a searching stare.

“I know we have not met before, but you seem familiar.” Cullen said. “You remind me of someone I knew, when I was young.”

“Must have made an impression if I remind you of him.” Anders laughed, and he prayed to the Maker that Cullen would not pry further.

“He filled my clothing chest with itching powder. He was quite memorable.” Cullen said dryly. Fenris’s amused snort broke their staring contest, and Cullen clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth.

“I’ll be off, then.” He said. “Be careful. Even if there are no mages controlling it, demons are tricksome creatures.” And then he rode off into the woods. Fenris walked up next to Anders and sighed.

“That went well, didn’t it?” Anders asked.

“Certainly.” Fenris retorted. He pointed to the cottage door and looked up to Anders.

“Should we knock?” Fenris asked. Anders considered the question for a moment, but shook his head. He had no wish to tangle with an irritated mage and her six very angry swans. He marveled that Cullen was able to hoist himself up into a pine tree while wearing steel plate armor. The swans had very sharp beaks.

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Anders replied. “My curse has been here for years. What’s one more day in the grand scheme of it all?”

“You may have a point.” Fenris reluctantly admitted. “Though I do not like it.”

“One day is nothing. We should go home, though. There’s a storm blowing in.” Anders pointed to the dark clouds drifting over the clearing. With the clouds and the thick forest growth, it would be as dark as night under the canopy. It would be dangerous. They should go, and as soon as possible.

“Agreed.” Fenris lay a hand on Anders’s forearm. “Come. We will leave now.” And Fenris led them out of the meadow and into the woods, slowly walking the path together. Fenris’s hand was warm against his fur. Anders smiled and let Fenris lead them, and even the silence of the forest could not completely ruin his joy. Fenris had protected them, protected him, from a Templar. He was considerate and sweet and funny, and he was a good man. Anders enjoyed his company.

“I wanted to thank you. For not telling that Templar about the Hedgewitch.” Anders said shyly. He could say nothing else, he could not express the depth of his gratitude, but he could do this much.

“It was nothing.” Fenris mumbled, but Anders saw the flush on his face and at the tips of his ears.

“It was not nothing.” Anders insisted. “You protected my friend. You lied to keep her safe. It was… it was kind of you, Fenris. I know how you value the truth, so I’m grateful for what you did.”

“She has done nothing wrong. She had no interest in causing havoc. And I did not lie.” Fenris’s lips quirked up into a smirk. “I did not tell the Knight Captain everything, but I did not lie.”

“Cheeky.” Anders retorted. “But I am grateful. Thank you, Fenris.”

“You’re welcome, Anders.” Fenris looked up to the forest canopy and the darkening sky. “There is something strange in these woods.” Fenris was not wrong, Anders thought as a cool breeze ruffled his fur. No bird song. Little sound. There was something off about the forest today.

“If we cut through the forest, we will reach the manor sooner.” Anders suggested. “I do not wish to get caught in the woods once night falls.” The weather was creating an artificial night, and demons and other creatures would eagerly take risks when it was night.

“Can mages work weather?” Fenris asked as they moved down the path.

“Yes.” Anders replied. “And there is some magic afoot, but I can’t determine a source.” It could be a mage, it could be left over spells and aimless magic in the forest, it could just be a weather pattern. Anders did not know. All he knew was that he did not like what was happening.

“We will take our risks and travel through the woods.” Fenris decided. “I do not like how the forest has changed in these past few hours.” They stepped off the path, cutting their way through underbrush to reach the manor.

“This will cut down our travel, I promise.” Anders said, already hoping that there would be no trouble and fearing that they were already doomed for a terrible encounter.

The moment they cleared the forest and stepped foot into a meadow, Anders knew they were in danger. The meadow was covered in pale flowers, little specks of white scattered in green and gold grass. It would have been a beautiful sight, but the wrongness of the forest made everything, even the small flowers, look wrong.

“We must leave this place.” Fenris urged. “There is something twisted here.”

Anders was about to agree, about to pull them away from this strange meadow and the darkness that swirled in this place of white flowers and mist when something roared through the trees. It was no beast Anders could recognize, but it was a creature that Anders was familiar with. A demon. A rage demon. It was here, and it was searching for them. But before they could run the trees and underbrush cracked and rustled, and the demon thundered out of the forest and into the meadow.

It stood in the meadow across from them, billowing steam and flame from its cracked skin. The light in its eyes glowed orange. It was sniffed at the air, crouched down on all fours, and let out a terrible roar, the scream of a man and a bear and a tiger all at once. Anders prepared for it to charge, a demented echo of what had occurred earlier that afternoon, but once again Fenris put his body between Anders and the danger. He drew his sword and bellowed a challenge at the rage demon. It seemed to surprise the demon, and when the cry ended there was silence. The silence was broken when a woman’s laugh sounded through the clearing, the laugh as cold and sharp as an icicle. Anders did not recognize the laugh, but in front of him Fenris stiffened into a statue. Anders peered at Fenris’s handsome face, and it was frozen in fear as an elegant dark haired woman with ice blue eyes stepped out of the forest. Her dark lips twisted into a pleased smirk. She addressed Fenris in a clear voice that echoed through the meadow.

“Did my hound scare you, Little Wolf?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an outline all drawn up for the story, but even with an outline sometimes the story goes down paths I didn't plan for. I hope that this was an enjoyable chapter, and I hope the cliffhanger does not make you all too angry with me! Thank you for reading!


	7. A Field Of Daisies

Hadriana.

Fenris remembered her. He remembered the dark, the heat, the chill, the way she caressed a whip and spoke sing song words before flaying his back open, taking her frustration and anger out on him. He remembered how she simpered and smiled and batted her eyelashes at Danarius for his cast offs and favor. How she seethed in silence because Danarius always showered Fenris with his attention, how she waited for Danarius to turn his back before she took her calculated revenge. And now she was here, sent by Danarius to fetch him as one would fetch a package from a store. And it would be worse than denied meals and stolen sleep, worse than cruel words and the lash of a whip. Hadriana would have planned great horrors for a misbehaving slave, and she would perform her duties with glee.

Fenris would die before he let her have him again.

“Ah, the wolf found a pet.” Hadriana said, her voice as light as mist and cruel as knives. “Or perhaps it is the one that holds your chain now. You have certainly downgraded in terms of masters, Fenris.” Hadriana clicked her tongue, like a mother scolding a wayward child. Hadriana was never the motherly type, however. She would sell her children and gleefully cut their throats on the altar of her ambition. She stepped forward into the meadow, dark robes swishing against grass and pale flowers.

“End this foolishness and return with me, Fenris.” Hadriana ordered sharply. “A slave had no business straying so far from his master.”

Slave. A word Fenris had not been addressed as for years. In all those nights on the open road, all those nights in a run down mansion, every hard day of toil and every cold night of loneliness, Fenris had been called many things. Knife ear, mercenary, Broody, Elf, fugitive, companion, guest, friend. But never, in all that time, had he been called slave.

He would not be called a slave again.

Fenris rushed Hadriana, silent as the wolf for which he was named. His sword was drawn, he forgot about the rage demon, he forgot about the forest, he forgot about Anders. All there was was Hadriana and her dark robes, her cold eyes and colder smile, and his desire to cut her down and finally be rid of her once and for all.

“Ah, there’s that snarl. You’ve kept your teeth sharp, haven't you?” Hadriana cooed. Fenris ducked under the rage demon’s massive paw and ran on towards Hadriana, lifting his sword to take aim. She had a knife at the ready, and quickly nicked her palm and let the blood well up, dark against pale skin. A drop spilt on the ground, and something tall and ghostly white burst forth from soil and flowers, something hideous and skeletal and horrifying.

Fenris did not register what it was beyond the fact that it was an enemy in his way. He cut the creature down as he rushed Hadriana, who dodged and summoned another creature. Fenris killed that one too.

“So you haven't let yourself laze about.” Hadriana mocked. “Such discipline! Danarius trained you well.” She tried to strike him with a bolt of lightning, but Fenris rolled out of the way. Without missing a beat he regained his footing and ran, swiping his gauntlet at Hadriana. She barely managed to avoid his grasp.

“The little beast bites?” Hadriana asked lightly, but her eyes burned with a cold fire. “One does not bite the hand that feeds!” She used fire this time, but the ground was damp and the blaze ineffectual.

“You never fed me.” Fenris said dryly. “Or have you forgotten the meals you kept away as punishment?” Fenris lazily tore another demon apart with his gauntlets. Hadriana was summoning more of them, but they were weaker. That was the price she paid for numbers. These demons had far less skill. But Hadriana continued to summon demons, blood splashing on the ground. One demon. Two. Then another, and another, Hadriana’s expression a little more desperate as Fenris slaughtered every demon she summoned.

“Demon! Back!” She shouted at the rage demon, and Fenris remembered that he was not alone. He had a companion, an innocent by his side, and he had led them into danger. He turned to find Anders. He had forgotten, he let his hatred and anger blind him and he forgot the rage demon, and now Anders was- Anders was-

Anders was fine, Fenris realized as he took in the sight of his enormous friend. Perhaps winded, his dark blue cloak shredded, golden fur mussed, but alive. Beautifully, wonderfully alive. Golden red ichor dripped from his claws. Anders wasn't just fine, Fenris realized. He had held his own. He had successfully defended himself.

“Anders?” Fenris could hardly believe it as Anders casually flicked a wrist and ichor splattered against white flowers and grass.

“Ever face a brood mother, Fenris? I’ve chewed up demons like this for breakfast.” Anders called out. “And she’s strained. Controlling this big fellow has already weakened her.” Anders’s words cut through the fog of rage and fear Fenris was surrounded by. When he looked at Hadriana again, truly looked, he saw that Anders was right. Her pale brow was dotted by sweat, the kohl around her eyes slightly smeared and running down her narrow cheeks. Her robes, dark blue velvet, were splattered with mud and blood. Her dark hair was falling out of its elaborate hairstyle. And she was afraid.

She was afraid. Fenris could not remember if he ever saw Hadriana afraid of anything. She considered him a threat now. Uncontrollable. 

Good.

Hadriana saw that he saw, and she did not approve. She had lost her hold on Fenris, and she was not pleased. She drew herself up and sneered at him.

“Oh, the beast speaks.” She spoke as if Anders was only a mild irritant, ignoring how her rage demon panted and spewed sparks and ichor, limped along and bellowed at every hurt in its body.

“Say your prayers, Hadriana.” Fenris snarled. “Though I doubt they will do you any good.”

“The slave is a philosopher now?” Hadriana snorted, her nostrils flaring out in anger. “Your creature has trained you well. How impressive.” Fenris ignored her jibes. She was afraid, and he could defeat her. Anders was safe, and had moved to his side to help him fight off the rage demon. Anders was a Warden, a warrior without peer. Fenris had someone to help him.

He had never had someone who fought by his side before.

Fenris did not chase after Hadriana this time. This time he flanked the rage demon. Anders seemed to realize what Fenris needed without words, undoubtedly a product of his Warden training. He raced along the other side of the demon, claws extended to rend enchanted spirit flesh. Fenris ducked his head as the demon tried to bat him away, and drove his sword into the demon’s right shoulder. It howled a terrible screech, one that was echoed by Hadriana’s angry exclamation.

“You useless summon!” Hadriana howled. “This was not a part of our bargain!”

The rage demon only roared in response as Anders’s claws raked against its flesh. Fenris dug his sword in deeper, golden ichor splashing on his armor and face. Disgusting.

“Take care of the blood mage now!” Anders called out over the roar of the demon. “If it dies before she does, she might recover enough stamina to summon a fresh one from the Fade!” Fenris did not need any more motivation to chase after Hadriana. He returned his attention to her, confident in Anders’s ability to take care of the now severely weakened demon.

“Still taking orders.” Hadriana remarked, her words dropping acid.

“Advice from a friend.” Fenris bit out, dodging icicles and lightning at seemingly random intervals. Anders was right. Her stamina was low. Hadriana’s normally careful and calculated casting was completely unbalanced. She may have been Danarius’s most politically savvy apprentice, Fenris realized, but she was far from his most talented. Her skills were useful in a city full of intrigue and strings to pull. They could not keep her alive in a fight in the woods. She had no power here.

“I will be sure to take your friend with us back to Minrathous when I have you collared, slave.” Hadriana panted out. “My study could use a new tapestry, and I hear tell it is a Dalish custom to skin and present a kill to your betters. You could learn some humility.”

Minrathous. That den of wickedness, hot and cruel and the air thick with the scent of incense and blood. Myrrh and copper. Fenris could not go back there, he could not let Anders go there. Hadriana would not just kill the man and skin him. She would torture him, torment him, hurt him, drive his humanity from him until he was truly a beast, just like she once did to Fenris. And once Anders was gone, well and truly lost to the world, Hadriana would set him loose in the great amphitheater to be sport for gladiators. Sport for him, Fenris realized. He would be forced to hunt and kill and skin his friend, a man who showed him kindness and compassion, a man who made him laugh and see that perhaps magic was not as dark as it could be. Hadriana would destroy Anders completely, just to dismantle Fenris. There is nothing of yours that I cannot take from you. That was what Hadriana wanted Fenris to know.

Fenris would prove her wrong.

“You will have to defeat us, and you will not win.” Fenris retorted, and he ducked another lightning bolt and gave chase. Hadriana was tiring now. She did not have the power or skill to continually fight Fenris, and Fenris had trained to take down rogue blood mages. Every moment he knew from the first morning when he woke up from a cold slab with nothing but the name Fenris was devoted to defending Danarius from assassins and rival magisters. He was built to kill mages like Hadriana.

She stumbled over the hems of her elaborate robes as she tried to escape, and Fenris reached out with his gauntlet, the lyrium flashing pale fire as he phased through velvet and flesh.

“Fenris, hurry!” Anders called out behind him. “This demon’s on its last legs and she’s going to summon another!”

Fenris curled his fingers, metal and flesh and bone and lyrium, around Hadriana’s heart. It was a surprise to find it was blood and flesh, and not the stone and ice Fenris half expected. He heard the demon bellow before falling to the earth, the drop a thunderous noise. He turned to look for Anders, to find him in the tangle of demon limbs. That was when Hadriana struck. She reached a hand up and clasped the back of his neck, her fingers icy on his skin.

“You do not want me dead.” Hadriana hissed. “You have family, a sister, a mother- let me live and I will lead you to them.”

“You lie.” Fenris growled, but he could not pull his hand back. He could not kill her, not without knowing the truth. Family? A mother, a sister, his family? She could be lying. Hadriana would say anything to keep her life. But if it was the truth-

“They are in Minrathous, not slaves. And I will take you to them.” Hadriana hissed into his ear, and there was a cold, sharp pain in his stomach. A knife. Fenris stared at the elaborate bone handle dotted with semi-precious stones and wrapped in silver wire. The blade was well honed and twisted in his gut, and he felt himself weaken. It was a spelled knife.

Hadriana stabbed him with a spelled knife. Fenris tore his hand out of Hadriana’s chest, taking her heart with him as he crumpled to his knees. He let the heart drop to the ground next to Hadriana’s body. Her dull ice blue eyes stared up into the sky. They stared up at nothing. Fenristried to breathe, but it hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Anders. He needed to find Anders. Anders had to get away from here, at least. Someone had to survive this battle. Fenris tried to pull himself up to his feet, but he could not manage it. He dragged himself across the field, towards the demon carcass and the slowly disappearing spirit flesh.

“Anders?” Fenris croaked out. “Anders?”

“Fenris?” Anders called back. “Fenris, are you there?” Fenris looked up and nearly cried out in relieved joy when Anders loomed above him, golden and beautiful in the moonlight.

“Anders.” Fenris sighed, and the world tilted. The ground was soft and warm. He looked up, and Anders was above him, his bright brown eyes worried and blurry. All of Anders was blurry, as if Fenris was looking at him through a panel of thick, cloudy glass.

“Fenris, Andraste's Arse, you will not die on me!” Anders growled, shaking Fenris gently by the shoulders. Fenris did not mean to get stabbed. Hadriana distracted him and he was foolish and fell for her tricks. She stabbed him. It was cold. It was raining. Or was it raining? The ground did not feel wet.

“Anders?” Fenris whispered.

“Keep your mouth shut and focus on breathing, this is going to hurt like a dragon’s bite.” Anders growled out. “She coated her knife with Soldier’s Bane, she must have meant to disable you.”

“Danarius looks for me still. He sent her.” Fenris murmured. “She was always his most eager follower.”

“Well she’s dead now and he won't have you.” Anders declared crisply. “Fenris, I have to take off your armor. I need to treat this stab wound.”

“Anders.” Fenris sighed. “It is too late.”

“I can help. I can- I can stop you from dying. Heal it.” Anders insisted. His voice came from a far away place, and his visage was slowly swallowed up by the void.

“She only meant to make a shallow cut, I think, but this is- Fenris? Fenris!” Anders called out, but all there was was darkness.

Warmth entered Fenris. Warmth, and a sense of feeling in his fingers and toes. He wriggled them, and delighted in how they worked. Death was not so bad, was it? There was warmth, and his digits and limbs still functioned, and there was the moon and so many white flowers swaying on the breeze. Flowers? Fenris tried to sit up, but was too weak to manage. He only lay back and stared up at the sky and the moon and the flickering stars above.

“Fenris?” Anders’s voice was as soft as the breeze rustling the grass. “Can you hear me?”

“Am I dead?” Fenris asked. He turned his head to search for Anders, but could not see him. He turned the other way, and found him kneeling, massive paws folded on his lap.

“No.” Anders replied. “You’re very much alive, Fenris. Probably weak and tired, the poison in your system hasn't completely drained out yet, but you're alive.”

“I should be dead.” Fenris said, a creeping, horrifying realization dawning on him as he looked down and saw pale blue sparks flickering above his stomach, stitching together a knife wound that should have been fatal. No one could survive this, no one could have cured it. No one but-

“Anders, what have you done?” Fenris asked, but he feared he already knew the answer. Anders was his friend. Anders would have wanted to help him. But was Anders desperate enough to deal with a demon for his life? Would Anders have done that for Fenris, sacrifice his own morality, his standards and vows as a Warden, to deal with a corrupt creature and make a bargain? Fenris could not believe it, he did not want to believe it, but he was alive and he should have been dead.

“Make it stop.” Fenris begged. “Make the demon stop, you can't do this, not for me-” He forced himself into a sitting position and cried out as the wound tore open slight and blood dribbled down his stomach.

“Fenris, Fenris calm down! You’ll tear up your stomach muscles again!” Anders reached over with a massive paw, and Fenris flinched away.

“What did you do, Anders? What demon did you bargain with?” Fenris asked. One of Hadriana’s creatures must have slipped away from his blade, it must have tempted Anders, and demanded a price for Fenris’s life. Anders must have paid a high price for Fenris’s life, and Fenris could not bear the idea that he corrupted a good man like Anders. He couldn't bear it.

“There was no bargain, Fenris.” Anders insisted, a lie but a kind one. “I swear to you, no demon, no blood magic, no deals.” His eyes were so sweet and concerned, and Fenris wanted to believe but he couldn't. Then Anders surprised him. He lifted one massive paw, palm facing upwards, and displayed it for Fenris’s viewing pleasure.

At first there was nothing. It was just the dark pads of Anders’s paw and golden fur. But then there was a spark, a flash of brightness, and a pallid flame no larger than Fenris’s fingernail hovered in the palm of Anders’s paw.

“I was a mage. Am a mage. Warden Anders, mage, healer, and general nuisance.” Anders said, his voice tight and dancing on the edge of hysteria. “I used my magic to drain the poison and stitch up your wound, there wasn't time to ask permission. I’m sorry.”

Fenris’s world crumbled, then realigned itself, Anders’s oddities and confession filling in gaps that had puzzled Fenris. How was the man so knowledgeable in magic? Why did he hold no hate, no revulsion for what was done to him? Why did he cower away from a Templar? Why did he not give that Templar his name? The answer was simple: Anders was a mage. And to think that Fenris had defended him.

“What other lies have you told me?” Fenris managed to gasp out, winded by the pain in his wound (and perhaps, though he would never confess it, the pain that Anders had put in his heart).

“None.” Anders replied, letting the little flame in his palm fizzle out. “I was a Warden, I was cursed by a companion, and I went on my own to live where no one could skin and mount me in some tavern. Or lock me up. I hunt demons in the woods and keep the path safe, and brew healing potions.” It sounded like truth, and Fenris wanted to believe, but Anders had- Anders had-

“You lied.” Fenris said. “You did not tell me what you were. You lied, Anders.”

“To be accurate, I only omitted the magic bit.” Anders protested, but it was a weak argument and he did not press it. Fenris noticed that he moved away, out of range of a swipe of his gauntleted hands or sword.

“End this magic, mage. Do not use your demons on me.” Fenris demanded, and he finally, finally saw Anders reveal a part of himself. He drew up to his great height and glowered at him. It was an impressive, intimidating sight, but Fenris was not afraid. He had just killed one blood mage. Surely he could take one more.

“They aren't demons!” Anders exclaimed. “They are spirits, and I am no blood mage, mor just mage, my name is Anders and I’m a Warden and a spirit healer and- and I thought I was your friend, Fenris.” Anders sounded sad, but Fenris could not be certain that it was true or if Anders was an even greater actor than Fenris thought.

“I thought you were mine, but here we are.” Fenris replied, and he did not know that hearts could break until his did. It not only broke but it shattered, and he only wanted to sleep. Sleep and pretend it was yesterday, when he and Anders ate supper in the library and read a collection of bawdy poems together. They had laughed over the descriptions of heaving bosoms and fluttering lashes, and Anders did an elaborate impersonation of an Orlesian courtesan. But was that Anders, or was Anders only pretending? What was the truth anymore?

“I’ve always been your friend, Fenris.” Anders said softly, and Fenris wanted to believe, but-

“I should have known magic would rule everything in my life.” Fenris knew he sounded a little bitter, but he wanted to sound angry. Anger would shield him, keep him safe from a man who lied and hurt him. Just like a mage, Fenris thought. Just like every mage.

“It doesn't rule you, I promise!” Anders cried out, and suddenly the magic pouring into Fenris, that flow of pale blue that his lyrium was so eagerly drawing upon, stopped. It was as if a bolder had stopped up a small stream, and no water could trickle past.

“No more magic.” Anders promised. “You're well enough to walk on your own, without reopening a wound. You can go where you please and I won't stop you.”

“This is a trick.” Fenris decided.

“No tricks. No lies. You can leave, Fenris. You can go wherever you please and if you don't want to hear of me anymore I’ll disappear like one of your fairy tale ghosts.” Anders stood up and walked away, long strides away from Fenris. Fenris cautiously went to his feet, sword in hand and ready to strike if Anders dared move closer.

“Your horse will be saddled and left at the entrance of the manor.” Anders promised. “And your path to Kirkwall will be clear.”

“You promise this for what?” Fenris asked. There had to be a catch to a bargain. There always was. No one, especially a mage, gave something away for free. Fenris wondered what price he would have to pay for Anders’s hospitality.

“That you leave me be.” Anders sighed. “It’s all that I’ve wanted, to be left in peace.”

“Then I will go.” Fenris did not turn his back to Anders. Anders was the one to retreat into the forest undergrowth. Anders was the one to leave. Fenris stood alone in a meadow full of blood stained flowers, and he told himself not to weep. He was not a stranger to the treachery and cunning of a mage. He only wished he was.

Anders had kept his promise. When Fenris had calmed himself enough to leave the meadow, he went to the road to return to Kirkwall. The white mare stood placidly in the middle of the road, saddled and ready for him. Fenris cautiously approached, and the horse only nudged him and looked at him with soft, dark eyes. Her velvet nose nudged at him again, and Fenris allowed himself to cradle the beast’s head and bury his own head into her neck for one brief moment.

“He lied.” Fenris muttered to the horse. “Mages always lie.” He hoisted himself up into the saddle and urged the horse down the road back to Kirkwall. The forest was quiet, and he was alone. Always alone, Fenris thought. He had thought he had found a companion, someone who understood exile and hiding and how much magic hurt, but Fenris had been mistaken. Anders must be laughing at him now, Fenris thought. He must be congratulating himself for stringing Fenris along, pretending to be a friend, lying and tricking him- but for what?

Lyrium, Fenris decided. He had enough people desperate to track him down for the small fortune embedded in his skin, and his lyrium and training were even more useful to a mage. Anders pretended to be his friend for the lyrium. That had to be the reason. Why else would he bother? These thoughts haunted Fenris, and he did not realize how far he had traveled until he reached Kirkwall’s gates. Home, he supposed, but home had so quickly become the warm fireplace in Anders’s library, surrounded by books and sitting in cushions, eagerly sharing stories with Anders and laughing as they drank wine and ate snacks. Home wasn’t the cold mansion crumbling around his ears, it wasn’t the tavern where he would sometimes take a meal, it wasn’t Kirkwall. Fenris had no home now. Anders had taken that too.

Fenris slowly made his way to the Templar headquarters in the city. The Templars had temporarily made their base of operations within the Chantry, as Kirkwall’s Circle was slowly repaired after a mysterious fire broke out in the barracks. So Fenris urged his horse up the winding stairs and cobblestone streets into Hightown. He would inform Knight Commander Meredith of his return, of killing a blood mage, and he would hold her to her promise to keep Danarius away from him. And afterwards… afterwards…

Fenris would just have to figure out what came afterwards when he reached that point.

He dismounted and sheltered his horse in the Chantry stables, ready to speak with Meredith and return to his crumbling mansion to sleep. When he was done with sleeping he would find another job, somewhere to take him away from Kirkwall and that cursed forest around Sundermount. Perhaps he would travel to Starkhaven, or sail across the sea to take a job in Ferelden. Anything to take him away from these memories of Anders, at least for a time. Fenris knocked on a large wooden door that led to Knight Commander Meredith’s quarters, eager to finish this business and put it behind him.

“Enter.” Meredith ordered imperiously. Fenris slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Knight Commander.” Fenris said cautiously, taking in Meredith’s appearance. Closing the door was perhaps a poor decision, Fenris realized. Meredith was as immaculately dressed as always, her red silk tabard crisp and clean, her armor polished, her ash-blond hair hanging in elegant curls. Even her star-like crown was perfectly in place. But her eyes, those bright blue, sharp eyes, they were not as alert as Fenris remembered. They were feverish. Hungry. 

They were far too similar to the look that Hadriana would give him before she punished him.

“What do you have to report, Mercenary?” Meredith asked eagerly, her thin lips stretched out into an almost maniacal grin. “What of the apostates in the forest?” Her unabashed glee at the prospect of learning about rogue mages was alarming. She may appear to be the same woman, but Knight Commander Meredith Stannard was not the same woman she was when Fenris last saw her. What had happened in the past month Fenris was away from Kirkwall?

“I made contact with the Dalish camping at the base of Sundermount. They have had trouble with bandits in the forest, and some demon activity along the roads.” Fenris said simply. “They did not report of any apostates or blood mages, though they had been tracking a rage demon summoned on the borders of their territory.”

“No apostates?” Meredith asked, staring at Fenris with those too cold eyes.

“I killed one blood mage, a slaver who controlled the rage demon.” Fenris replied. “But they were a citizen of Tevinter, not quite an apostate. They were killed in self-defense, as their demon threatened travelers. There will be no more threat.” It was the truth, wasn’t it? Hadriana could no longer threaten him, or anyone else. She was more dangerous than any mage Fenris had met in the forest. The Hedgewitch could easily be mistaken for a harmless mute peasant girl who turned nettles to wool and had six large, overprotective swans. And Anders- Anders.

“There were no other mages?” Meredith prodded, and Fenris shook his head.

“Only the members of the Dalish clan.” Fenris said, and that was it. Anders was a mage, Anders had betrayed him, Anders broke his trust, but Fenris could not betray him. This is my last act of friendship towards you, Fenris thought, remembering how Anders gave him shelter, taught him to read, gave him hope and laughter when he had not laughed in years. Perhaps their friendship wasn’t real to Anders, but it was real to Fenris. It meant something, and Fenris would honor their friendship one last time.

“How unfortunate.” Meredith murmured before she stood up from behind her desk. “Walk with me, I must give you your reward.” She swept past Fenris, and the force of her presence urged Fenris to walk with her. She walked through the main Chantry hall, and Fenris followed.

“I have my doubts over what you found in that forest.” Meredith said coldly as they walked. “My Knight Captain was quite detailed in his report. Strange magic in the forest, enchantments and curses abound.”

“I could not locate the originator of such curses.” Fenris replied.

“As such, I do not believe our bargain has been met.” Meredith continued to speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Knight Captain Cullen start to approach them, but a curt nod from Meredith halted his advance. After a moment he nodded and turned away. Fenris saw that the captain was not retreating further into the Chantry. He was going outside.

Something felt off. Fenris just didn't know what it was.

“As such, I will not offer our original deal.” Meredith declared as the stood in front of the altar and a statue of Andraste.

“I did as asked. I scouted the forest and killed the blood mage causing havoc in those woods.” Fenris replied. “Some payment for my work is owed.” He should have known the woman would never keep her promises. Somewhere in the distance a door opened, and someone was walking up above in the choir loft. Fenris did not take his eyes off the woman in front of him. Meredith was unpredictable. He thought he understood her motivations- she was greedy and controlling, and performed her tasks with an unmatched glee. But when Fenris looked into her eyes now all he could see was madness.

“You will receive your payment, add all traitors and spies do.” Meredith snarled, but there was another sound that made Fenris’s blood turn to ice. It was a low, dry chuckle, devoid of any humor or joy. Fenris watched in horror as the hem of an elaborate dark red velvet robe skimmed the wooden steps that led down from the choir loft. His gaze took in that fine robe, embellished with semi precious stones and thread of gold, it took in the grey hair and beard, the cruel face, those eyes as black as tar, and Fenris felt fear.

“Hello, my Little Wolf.” Danarius said. “You have wandered far from home, pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another cliffhanger for everyone to enjoy! Thank you all for reading and leaving comments on this story. I appreciate them!
> 
> On to the next chapter!


	8. What Comes From Within

Anders paced back and forth in his tower workroom and tried not to think of Fenris for the hundredth time that day. It had been three days since that night in the forest, three day since Fenris left, and Anders had done little else but worry over Fenris. Anders told himself that he did what he had to to keep Fenris alive. It was better to have an alive Fenris who hated him than to have a dead Fenris who cared for him. And their friendship would have never blossomed into something more, no matter what Fenris had insisted. Fenris would have grown restless in the manor, trapped with only Anders for company. Now there was no friendship, no love, but Fenris was alive. Anders was content with that.

So why did his heart hurt?

Fenris had looked at him like he was a monster. Worse than a monster. He was angry, it was true, but under that anger there was terror in those big green eyes. Fenris had never once been afraid of him, not until Anders revealed that he had magic. He should have been honest from the beginning, but he was not. He was too afraid of losing Fenris. Fenris and his bright, curious, friendly presence was a balm against the loneliness Anders often felt in the manor. Now he was gone, and Anders was once again alone.

“Stupid.” Anders growled. “Stupid lovesick fool.” He was sick, sick at heart because even though he knew Fenris could never love him Anders loved Fenris. What was there that he could not love about Fenris? He was driven, determined, intelligent, observant, and surprisingly kind under the gruff persona he displayed. His eyes lit up when he learned something new, his voice went low and scratchy when he wanted to tease, he hid books in all of his haunts, he took his time to include Anders in all parts of his life, he spent his time trying to find a cure for Anders even though it was hopeless- of course Anders loved him! But Fenris did not love Anders, and never would.

Anders wanted to be left alone, and the spirits had been kind enough to let him wallow in his grief for a little while. They tiptoed past the library and did not press him to eat meals or sleep properly. They let Anders grieve what could have been, no matter how fanciful the could have actually was. But it would not last forever, and the spirits had returned to their usual obnoxious and demanding natures. 

They pressed around him, pushing and pulling and insisting he move from his spot in the library. Anders batted away at them, but his claws only met ghostly spirit flesh and spells. The spirits would not be so easily dissuaded. Their hands tugged and their whispers reached his ears, but it was the images that they imparted that alarmed Anders. Danger, they said, danger in the south. South was Kirkwall. There was always danger in Kirkwall. But that was where Fenris was riding, towards Kirkwall, towards danger. Kirkwall was dangerous for normal mages. It spelled certain death for an oddity like Anders, a mage turned beast with all the magic of a powerful enchanter and the appearance of a monster. No, he could not go to Kirkwall. Anders tried to ignore the spirits, but they would not let him be. They would not leave him to his grief.

“Go bother some other lovesick fool, you gnats! Andraste’s knickers, won’t you let a man rest?!” Anders muttered, once again trying to push the spirits away, but they only crowded ever closer. Danger, Kirkwall! Danger! Trouble, slavery, death! Danger! It was the word slavery that caught Anders’s attention. The spirits did not understand exaggeration. Often they were guilty of downplaying the seriousness of a situation. Having lived and wandered the Fade for centuries, spirits knew that all things would pass. They understood that the cares of the waking world were temporary. But they knew slavery. They would name slavery as slavery. There was no hyperbole in their words. There was only truth.

Then there were the images, the flashes of what the spirits could see. Anders saw the city, raced down the narrow streets, turned to a large square surrounded by high buildings. The vision shifted, narrowing to one particular building, zooming through the building’s grand wooden doors until he was racing through the main hall of a Chantry. The vision turned a sharp right, down a set of stairs, and then there was another door. And behind that door, tied by rope and chain and his green eyes full of terror was-

“Fenris.” Anders breathed out. Fenris was in danger. Anders tore out of the library and took to the stairs, already making plans. He had armor that would fit his form, potions to help his allies, poisons for his enemies, lyrium to boost his mana reserves, a staff of ironwood that he could wield, even at his enormous side- it did not matter that Fenris did not wish to see him again. It did not matter that Fenris thought he was a blood mage, an abomination, a monster because of his magic. He would save Fenris, he would protect him from slavery and danger. He had to. 

Fenris was his friend, Fenris had tried to help him, and when he thought Anders had betrayed him he had only left. He could have attacked, he could have tried to kill him, but Fenris just left. Anders had fully expected the forest to be full of lost Templars trying to find apostates and magical beasts, but there was nothing. Fenris had remained silent for three days. Anders would return that kindness. He would prove his worth to Fenris, prove that mages were not evil. He would prove that mages could be just and true.

And when the threat had ended, when the danger was gone, Anders would beg for Fenris’s forgiveness. He would apologize for lying to his friend, he would tell Fenris that he cared for him and that he was sorry. He would stand by Fenris’s side and protect the man he loved, and the world would see how a Warden, how a mage, would stand for justice. Anders was so occupied at the mission at hand that he did not notice the way his fur prickled, how his strides seemed shorter and unnatural to him, how the halls became longer and larger as he moved. He could only think of his wooden chest, of the equipment he kept locked inside, of the items he would need before he raced to Kirkwall to try and prevent disaster. It was only until his paws gripped the lid of the wooden chest that Anders realized they were no longer paws covered in golden fur.

They were pale hands dotted with freckles, the fingers long and slender, the skin rough, the nails far too long. Anders stared at those hands. He closed his eyes, opened them, and looked down at his paws again. They were still hands. Human hands. His hands. Anders wriggled the fingers, turned them in and out, looked at the palms and the backs of his hands. He examined his body, expecting to see what he had seen for years now. He expected fur and muscle and talons under his ragged, enormous clothing. But Anders found a human body, pale and freckled and muscled and thin. There were the familiar scars from his battles when he was a Warden, the scars from his time in the Circle, the scars from childhood. Scars that were hidden under his fur as a beast. He touched his flesh with his hand, and it was real. It was all real.

But it also complicated things considerably. Anders flung the chest open and pulled out his Warden robes. They were a little big on his skinny frame, but he tightened the laces and pulled on his boots. It would take longer to travel, Anders thought as he packed Healing and lyrium potions into a small rucksack. He could have carried a larger pack, were he still a beast. He was a living physical weapon as a beast. Human legs could not move as quickly as his beast legs, and he would tire easily. For years he longed for his human shape, he longed to be able to touch and feel as a human, but now- now it was a hinderance, not a help. What use were human legs and body when he couldn’t run and reach Kirkwall in time?

As if the spirits recognized his terror and worry, they crowded him and herded him out of the tower and down the steps. They led him down more and more stairs to places in the mansion Anders had never explored before. He was pulled and pushed until he reached his destination. The spirits had led him to a mirror.

The mirror towered above him, its reflective surface climbing up to the rafters. The woodwork in the frame was delicate and twisted and strange. It was beautiful. It was frightening. It was everything in between. Anders stared into the mirror, stared at his reflection, stared into a face he had not seen in years. He was thinner now, his cheekbones sharp and prominent. His chin and jaw were covered with stubble edging on scruff. His nails were too long. His eyes were slightly sunken in and sad. There were faint streaks of silver in his hair. He was older now, older and wiser and sadder, but Anders was human again. It was no deception or wishful thinking, no madness or dream. He had his form back. A form that would help him enter Kirkwall and save Fenris as much as it would hinder his progress. But all that was important was finding Fenris in that Chantry, finding him, breaking those chains, and saving him. It didn't matter if he was captured by Templars. It didn't matter if he was killed. Saving Fenris from the danger in that city, from slavery, that was what mattered. Something nudged at Anders’s back, pushing him towards the mirror, and when he reached a hand forward to steady himself on the glass, his hand kept going. It did not touch a solid surface, but swam as if in cool water.

“An Eluvian.” Anders breathed out, and the spirits chimed their agreement. He had heard of Eluvians, the tools of the elvhen gods, items they used to travel anywhere, speak to anyone, spy on anything they so desired. They were items of legend, myth, the stuff of tales. But, Anders told himself, so were tales of men turned to beasts. The feats of fairy tales could be performed by everyday magic. Fenris had taught him that.

“I must go to Kirkwall.” Anders told the Eluvian. “Find me the swiftest way there.” The mirror swirled and shimmered like sunlight on water, and Anders didn’t bother to wait for the image to settle. He ran through, ironwood staff in hands, his hands, ready to run and fight and defend Fenris no matter what. His feet were on solid stone tile, then there was nothing. He was flailing in the dark and his feet were sinking into darkness and there was no air- Anders tried to gasp and fill his lungs, but there was no air to breathe. It was water. Anders kicked and kicked to get away from the mud sucking at his feet. He looked up and saw beautiful light filtering through the green water. Anders broke the surface of the water with a gasp and swam to shore, kicking until he reached shallow waters. He stumbled out of the water and finally got a good grasp of his surroundings.

He was at the edge of a pond. He was still in the forest at the base of Sundermount. Anders looked back at the pond, into the murky depths. There was a faint outline of a dark structure lurking in the depths, a structure that could have roughly been the size and shape of an eluvian. How many of these mirrors were scattered through the forest? How many of them were left in the world? Anders could only guess. His thoughts were as muddy as the pond water. Where was he? Where was the nearest road? How far must he travel until he reached Kirkwall? There was so little time and he was wasting it!

Indignant honking sounds startled him out of his panic, and Anders turned his head to face the onslaught of six very angry swans. They rushed him in an attack of sharp orange beaks and strong wing slaps, their fury stirring up a windstorm of feathers and dust. And behind the swans came the Hedgewitch, her pretty face full of wrath and she gripped a fine oak staff and pointed the sharp steel blade at his heart. The point hovered right above his sternum and crackled with a flicker of promised lightning and the scent of burnt ozone. Anders watched as the Hedgewitch scanned his face, his clothing, his dripping appearance. Her eyes fixated on the winged gryphon adorning his tunic and stopped.

“It’s me.” Anders said, but the Hedgewitch only seemed puzzled. Even his voice was unfamiliar, Anders realized. Less of a beast’s growl, and more of a man’s hoarse, unpracticed speech. No one who had met him as a beast would recognize him now. Anders wondered if anyone who knew him from before would even recognize him, he had so greatly changed. But he had to try. For Fenris, he must try.

“Anders. I’m Anders. The curse broke, I don’t know how, but I haven’t time for that right now.” Anders said. “I have to get to Kirkwall, Fenris is in trouble, he was chained up. The spirits showed me.” The Hedgewitch narrowed her dark eyes and stared up at him, then gestured back to her home. She wanted a conversation? Did she not believe him?

“I haven’t time for a chat or some tea and cakes, I have to rescue Fenris!” Anders insisted. The Hedgewitch rolled her eyes, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him towards the cottage. The swans followed, hissing and ruffling their feathers. Praise the Maker, the foul little demons were no longer biting him. The Hedgewitch stopped and pointed to a horse, an enormous bay horse, who was patiently chewing some grass. She held up her hand to indicate that Anders should wait, and she disappeared into the cottage. The swans remained with Anders, and Anders stepped closer to the horse to inspect it. It seemed freshly saddled and prepared for a long, difficult ride. It was also enormous, easily big enough to carry a fully armored man into battle. Or, Anders realized, a lightly armored, skinny man and a tiny wisp of a woman down a forest road and into a city.

When the Hedgewitch returned, she was armed for a fight. Gone was the apron and the rose-colored skirts. She wore leather armor and a ragged olive green battle robe, and the bag she had slung over her shoulder rattled with the sound of potion bottles. She held her staff in her right hand with the confidence of a well-practiced master. Anders had been out of the Circles for some time, but he saw from the colored stripes on the sleeves and the finer weave of the fabric that this was not just a Circle robe, but the robe of an Enchanter. The Hedgewitch was an apostate, a runaway from the Circle. A highly ranked apostate, and if Anders remembered his colors and Circles correctly, she came from Ostwick. 

“Ostwick Tower.” Anders breathed out. It made some sense, Anders realized. No simple hedgewitch could have kept these borderlands safe. No rudimentary spellcaster could hold their own against bandits and other mages. No self-taught practitioner of the craft had the discipline or training. And no plain witch would have cowered in terror at the sight of a Templar. The Hedgewitch knew Circles and Templars so well, feared them so greatly, because she had been locked in a Circle and guarded by Templars.

“You were an Enchanter.” Anders said.

The Hedgewitch nodded grimly, then pointed to the saddled horse. They were obviously to get on it and start racing for the edge of the forest. The Hedgewitch launched herself up first, hopping up and clambering onto the horse’s broad back with little trouble. Anders did his best, though the Hedgewitch had to pull him up into the saddle behind her. She urged the horse forward with a small flick of her wrist to the reins and a light tap of her heels, and the horse started moving into an easy trot.

“Can we go any faster?” Anders asked. “We are in a bit of a hurry.” Anders could have sworn the Hedgewitch smiled before she kicked in her heels and the horse flew across meadowgrass and into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Anders held on to the Hedgewitch’s waist as they flew down the path, and he could hear the faint sound of swans calling from above as they rode. He bent his head down, wind whipping the Hedgewitch’s dark strands of hair into his face, and Anders shut his eyes.

Maker, Andraste, the gods who made the Eluvian, any god or goddess or spirit who was listening, Anders prayed. Don’t let me fail him again. Let me reach him in time to save the man I love, Anders bargained, and I will prove to him, to you, to the world, that I am a man and mage who can be trusted. Just promise me, Anders pleaded, promise me that I can reach him in time.

They rode through the dark forest, heading into the even greater darkness of the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit shorter than the other chapters, but I hope it's still acceptable! We're almost done, and still so much left to go!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Birds Of A Feather (Flock Together)

“Where were the mages, my pet?” Danarius crooned after a particularly vicious series of whippings were delivered to his back with a wooden switch. It was not the standard punishment for a runaway slave. Lashings, Fenris knew, were to be carried out in the main square of any Imperium town to discourage rebellion. They were delivered with a leather whip or a cat o’ nine tails, or even a spirit whip if there was the time and skill. A slave whipping was a public event, but Fenris had been sequestered away. The only two people he had seen were Danarius and Meredith. No one else entered. 

Fenris did not know how long he had been trapped in this room in the Chantry cellars. If he were to guess, he would say it was nearly three days now. There were three extended periods of time where Danarius and Meredith left him alone, locking the door behind them so he could not leave. It wasn’t as if Fenris could leave. He was so bruised and bloodied and tied up with rope and a thick iron chain that he could barely move. He was not dying. Danarius would not let him die, not when he finally had his hands on his greatest creation, his little beast, his prize.

“Your slave is hardly a fountain of information.” Meredith said dryly, watching the whipping with a disinterested, vaguely bored expression on her sharp face. Her bright blue eyes were fixated on the lyrium in Fenris’s skin, still pale blue underneath the drying blood. She wanted the lyrium, Fenris knew it. She would tear it out of his skin if she thought she could get away with it.

“You think they will protect you, my wolf? No one will protect a wild beast. No one but its master would dare.” Danarius murmured, his cold fingers tracing the lyrium embedded in Fenris’s back. “What did they do, Little Wolf? What sort of mischief and sloth did they try to teach you, pet?”

Fenris clenched his jaw and refused to speak. No one would come for him, no one would know to look, but Fenris would die before he lost what freedom he had. Fenris had knowledge now, he could read, he could write, he was a person and not a thing, and he would never be a thing again. No one could rip his personhood away from him ever again. 

“You will talk eventually.” Danarius said calmly, his voice cool. “It can be now or later, but you will speak, Wolf.”

“We hardly have time to indulge in your elf’s moods.” Meredith remarked. She marched to the door, her steel toed boots making sharp tapping sounds against the stone floor. They would have to leave soon, Fenris thought. One or both of them. It was near enough for them to leave for a meal, or perhaps for the night. Time was difficult to track when there was no change to the room he was trapped in.

“Make him speak, or I will.” Meredith declared. Danarius did not reply. His face was turned away from the Knight Commander of Kirkwall, but Fenris saw the barely restrained disgust in Danarius’s eyes. He saw the way his lip curled, the slight sneer that overtook his face before he smoothed it out into bland disinterest. Fenris saw it all.

Southern peasant, Fenris thought. She offends you, Danarius, and it stings your pride to bow your head and take orders from a Templar. She is a woman without your lineage and breeding, and you had to follow her command if you wanted your prize back. It disgusts you that you came this far, to the ruined carcass of a Tevinter slaving outpost, the former edges of the empire, to come and fetch me.

Good, Fenris thought with vicious glee. Good.

“He will talk.” Danarius said firmly, and that was when the pale violet lightning sparked between Danarius’s fingers and Fenris felt fear. He remembered this torture, and his body remembered it as well. It would not kill him, Fenris knew, but it would be painful. It would not end until Danarius decided it would end. And then Fenris would be weak, too weak to stop Danarius from taking anything he wished. Fenris would tell him of Merrill and her clan, of Hadriana’s death in the field, of the Hedgewitch and her nettles and swans. He would tell them both of Anders, and then Meredith would have the forest burnt to the ground. She would drive every living thing out of that forest and into a Circle or into even more dangerous wilds. 

Where would Clan Sabrae go, once they were driven from the forest and mountain they called home? Where could Merrill and her Keeper lead them? They would starve and die in a foreign land, all because of Meredith’s wrath. And what of the Hedgewitch, who only wove nettles into sweaters and cared for six swans? Her magic had not harmed anyone. Fenris never felt her reach for it, not once. She was just an odd young woman who kept birds, brewed tea, and couldn’t bake. And Anders- Anders would be killed. Hadriana had threatened it, and Meredith would do it. Anders would be skinned and hung up as a trophy, and he was just a man with a strange shape he was cursed into. A mage with a beast’s body. But mage or not, Fenris could not let Anders’s death haunt him as so many other deaths did. He knew he would break. Danarius would break him eventually. But Fenris would hold on for as long as he could. He would not let it come easy. Fenris braced himself for the pain that was coming, the fire and stabbing and terror that would run through the lyrium and destroy him from the inside.

But when it came, it was not what Fenris remembered.

It was painful. It would never be pleasant. Danarius had embedded the lyrium and used it as his means of training and control. Having magic forced through the marks would never be a pleasant sensation for Fenris. Yet it was not the pain he remembered. Instead of fire, it was only heat. The stabbing of knifes was just the prick of needles along the veins. And Fenris did not feel the fear, not anymore.

“How odd.” Danarius muttered. “What is that around your neck, pet?”

“What?” Meredith peered over Danarius’s shoulder and cursed. “A protection charm! Clever, it’s hidden in a little bauble, but I’ve seen these before. Wretched little things.” She reached out to tug the necklace off Fenris’s neck, the little charm Anders gave him. Crafted by a mage, Fenris remembered. Anders said it was crafted by a Warden mage. Did Anders make this? Once again, Anders had used his magic to protect Fenris. But mages didn’t stand up next to slaves to defend them. Or did they?

A bright light flashed, and Meredith cursed. She withdrew her hand, studying it and glaring at the singe marks on her leather clad fingertips. Anders’s charm still hung around Fenris’s neck.

“A protection charm can only be removed by the person who put it on, Knight Commander Stannard.” Danarius said icily. If she had been a magister Danarius would have run her through with a spectral blade for interfering with his work. But that was an end worthy of a rival, Fenris thought, and Danarius saw Meredith as a necessary annoyance. She was not his equal.

“It seems my naughty pet tried to find a new master while he was gone.” Danarius added, turning his poisonous glare on Fenris. Fenris did not breathe a word, but he certainly thought rebellious little thoughts as he held Danarius’s gaze. I am no pet, and Anders no master, Fenris thought. I am a person, one who can read and write and has thoughts and feelings. I can pick my companions as I see fit, and you are not worthy, Danarius. You can do nothing to me. Never again.

“He might not speak the way you want him to, but he will talk.” Meredith said grimly. “And I know how.” Meredith stood at the door and unlocked it, and when she turned to Fenris she was smiling. There was no humor or joy or gentleness in that smile. Her smile was sharp and cruel on her thin lips, with a gleeful meanness that bordered on madness. Danarius frightened him because Fenris knew what Danarius was capable of. Meredith frightened him because she was an unknown.

“You have friends in Kirkwall, Elf.” Meredith declared. “And I know you will speak when they are brought in. So who shall I drag in? The red head Guard Captain you take mercenary jobs from? That priest upstairs, the one whose sermons you attend? The pirate bitch? The talkative dwarf? Or should I drag in that apostate Champion?”

“You can threaten me all you please.” Fenris croaked out. “But they are blameless. You cannot jail innocents.” His companions. They could not hurt him, but they could hurt the few people he knew. Fenris saw the wheels turning, he knew what they were planning, and he felt fear rising in his stomach. 

“Oh, but they are not innocent. Bring him up to the Chantry altar.” Meredith ordered. “Perhaps a few prayers will inspire him to be more forthcoming.” She pulled Fenris up from the ground and pushed him out of the cell and up the stairs, her arm a vice around his bicep. The chains were off his body now, but his hands were tied behind his back with rough rope. Danarius followed sedately behind, though Fenris could feel his fury and malice simmering under a veneer of polite disinterest.

“You will draw attention, Knight Commander.” Danarius sniffed. “A Chantry is hardly a suitable place to conduct an interrogation.”

“I can think of no better place to draw the truth out of the blasphemous heathen than in front of Andraste herself.” Meredith replied, and it was at that moment that Fenris knew for certain the Knight Commander of Kirkwall was well and truly mad. Fenris was dragged up two sets of stairs, and while Meredith and Danarius were busy looking to their destination, Fenris glanced around the halls and nooks and crannies of the Chantry. There was no one there, no one who would see him- wait.

Fenris saw the crimson velvet tabard of a Templar knight flutter in one of the alcoves. A bit of metal, perhaps the steel of a breastplate, gleamed in the candlelight. Fenris walked on, but there was a flash of blond and crimson, and Fenris knew who was watching. That Knight Captain, Cullen, was hiding in the Chantry and watching Meredith. Their eyes met, and Fenris saw horror and understanding in the man’s eyes, followed by an unstoppable determination. He looked to the doors of the Chantry and moved his lips silently. Fenris barely caught the words.

“Stall for time.” Cullen ordered, and then the Knight Captain was out of view, and Fenris could only watch as he was dragged in front of the statue of Andraste holding her hands out in supplication. Her palms held up bowls of fire.

“The brand will not work on him. Pity. I find that the threat of Tranquility motivates people more than a beating.” Meredith remarked. It was as if she had forgotten she was speaking to a mage, a magister. Her desire for complete control over Kirkwall had made her strange allies, Fenris thought.

“The Rite of Tranquility is swinging a club when a pinch will accomplish your needs. Such a waste.” Danarius said lightly. He placed his hand on Fenris’s shoulder and urged him to kneel. Fenris tried to resist but he was tired, his knees too weak. He wobbled and sank to the carpet.

“We have other tools. Elf, tell me where the apostates in the forest hide, and I will let your friends-” Meredith spat out the word as if it were particularly foul. “Your friends will be left alone.”

Fenris remained silent. Meredith shook him.

“Conspiracy and treason are punishable by death. Think carefully. If you speak, your friends are only banished. If you remain silent, there will be blood staining your soul.” Meredith declared, and she pointed to the statue of Andraste. “Speak the truth before the Maker’s Holy Bride and I may be lenient.” But Fenris held his tongue. There was no guarantee Meredith would keep her word. She had broken it before. She let a magister into Kirkwall because the phantom of possible blood mages lurking in the woods was a greater threat to her power. She let a true blood mage, a slaver, a real threat into the city because it suited her plans. Meredith could not be trusted.

“Grand Cleric Elthina, this is madness!” A voice hissed. A familiar voice, and Fenris searched his memories for that voice until he remembered the Chantry priest and his musical recitation of the Chant. Fenris glanced to his left, not enough to get the attention of his captors but enough for him to see what was happening. But all he could see was the pale grey velvet of a Chantry Mother’s robe. 

“I cannot intervene, Sebastian. Remember, the Templars keep Kirkwall safe.” The woman said. Fenris recognized her voice as well. It was Kirkwall’s Grand Cleric, a small woman known for her peaceful nature. Some said her desire for peace often led to a dangerous passivity. Fenris had never truly believed it. He had thought she was simply waiting for tempers to settle, or that she was occupying herself with the affairs of the Chantry. But he must have miscalculated, as he had miscalculated so many things in his life. Grand Cleric Elthina would be of no help to him. Why would she care for his life? He was an elf living on the border of legality. He was nothing to her.

“That is a Tevinter magister, and the elf in front of him is one of my parishioners. We must do something!” The priest, Sebastian, exclaimed in quiet tones. Meredith and Danarius could not hear them, Fenris realized. Their conversation was so quiet and so far away that only Fenris could pick it up.

“We must not interfere in the business of the Templars.” Elthina said sternly. “Our business is to tend to the Andrastians of Kirkwall.”

“My business is to tend to the souls of all those who enter the Chantry.” Sebastian replied, and Fenris heard his retreating footsteps, followed by an old woman’s sigh and her softer footsteps. Fenris saw the priest leave the Chantry, dressed in armor with a great bow in hand. His handsome face was twisted in a mask of thunderous rage.

Fenris was not one to pray. No God had listened to him before, and the process was strange to him. But now, kneeling before the statue of Andraste, Fenris wondered if anyone was listening to him, watching his plight, waiting for him to place his faith in them. It couldn't hurt. Fenris shut his eyes.

If there is a Maker and his Bride, or the Dwarven ancestor gods, or the Elvhen pantheon, if anyone hears me, let someone gather help and free me. I can not free myself alone. I need help. Fenris prayed for deliverance, for assistance, for the smallest chance to help him escape. Let Knight Captain Cullen find what he needed when he told Fenris to stall for time. Let Brother Sebastian find his help, let someone- anyone- help him, and Fenris would be forever grateful.

Anders had helped him, Fenris thought as he prayed and ignored Meredith’s vows to tear Kirkwall to its foundations if Fenris did not cooperate. Anders had ignored common sense to help him. He had lied about his magic, lied to Fenris about who he was, and it hurt to be lied to. Fenris did not know how much he could trust Anders. But Fenris knew one thing for certain. Anders had never harmed him. Anders had protected him as best he could. Fenris knew that, given time, he could have forgiven Anders. He could have learned to trust him again. Anders would have protected him, had protected him, was protecting him even now- if he managed to escape this, if Knight Captain Cullen and Brother Sebastian managed to find some help and Fenris escaped the battle that would surely rage, he would look for Anders. He would apologize for his anger and harsh words, and he would ask if they could start over. He would ask if they could try for friendship again, for Fenris had never had a friend like Anders before. Fenris did not know if he would succeed, but he would try. For Anders, he would try.

“You have wandered far in your thoughts, pet.” Danarius crooned, stroking Fenris’s cheek with a cold hand. “But it is time to answer our queries.” Fenris tried to turn his head away from Danarius’s grasp, but Danarius gripped his chin and forced him to look up at him.

“All will be forgiven, Little Wolf, if you tell us what we require and return to Minrathous with me.” Danarius said, his voice all sweetness, all honey. But it was poison. It was death. Danarius’s eyes were cold, and Fenris knew that there was no forgiveness waiting for him. There was only punishment and slavery and pain.

“I am a free man.” Fenris managed to croak out, and satisfaction flooded his heart when Danarius’s dark eyes flared with rage. “I am a free man, and I owe you nothing, Danarius. I am free and you do not own me or my loyalty.”

Fenris could not regret his words, even when Danarius gripped the tip of his ear between his fingers and twisted. It was painful, but Fenris bit his lip and did not cry out. You can only do so much, Danarius, Fenris thought. But you will not take away the freedom I gained. Danarius opened his mouth to speak again, but he was interrupted when the Chantry doors flew open and slammed against the stone walls with a loud bang. 

Fenris turned his head and gaped at the figures who stood in the doorway, two people on an enormous bay stallion followed by a contingent of shrieking, flapping birds. Swans. Six swans. And behind the swans were more people, including Brother Sebastian, Knight Captain Cullen, the red-head Guard Captain, and more. But Fenris’s eyes were fixed on the horse, fixed on the riders on the horse. The Hedgewitch was perched on top of the stallion, dressed for battle and looking like a fierce warrior queen, her dainty features set in a stony grimace. She clutched the reins in one hand and her staff in the other as her swans perched on the pews of the Chantry like demented wedding decorations.

Sitting on the stallion behind her was a man, a man Fenris had never seen in real life. He saw the sketch in Anders’s notebook, the tall, slender Warden mage with the bright, lazy smile. Fenris did not know why that beautiful man would be here, dressed in Warden armor and scanning the Chantry like it was a battlefield. Their eyes met across the main hall, and Fenris saw that the man’s amber colored eyes brightened with joy and powerful relief.

“Fenris!” The man called out. “Fenris, are you alright?” The voice was familiar, Fenris thought. Take that voice, make it deeper, make it growl and snarl like a lion, and it would be one Fenris knew.

“Anders?” Fenris whispered, hardly daring to believe it was true. But the Warden nimbly jumped off the horse, followed by the Hedgewitch and her battalion of hissing swans and the throng they had gathered. He marched forward, eyes fixed on Fenris, and though his smile lacked fangs it was Anders’s cheeky grin. Anders had come here to Kirkwall, to a city known for its harsh treatment of its mage population. Anders came here, he came for him. Even after all that was said, Anders came. Anders cared.

“So here is your new master.” Danarius murmured for Fenris’s ears alone. “A ragged Warden mage with no breeding or status to speak of. How quaint.”

“I have no masters, Danarius.” Fenris said. “And I never will again.” Anders had come for him, the Hedgewitch joined him with her swans, Knight Captain Cullen and Brother Sebastian rallied others- and Fenris recognized them: Aveline the Guard Captain, Varric Tethras the merchant and storyteller, Isabela the pirate captain, Carver Hawke (another Templar and Garrett Hawke’s younger brother), Bethany Hawke (another Hawke sibling and mage), Garrett Hawke himself- even petite Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae, somehow ended up in Kirkwall’s Chantry. All these people, all of them here for him. All of them were here to save him, Fenris, a free man, their friend. 

“You want to take this free elf out of Kirkwall and back to Tevinter, Magister?” Anders shouted. “If you want to, you’ll have to go through me first.”

“You?” Danarius snorted, letting go of Fenris and drawing up to his full height. He was wearing crimson velvet and golden silk, Fenris realized, the opposite of Anders’s silver and blue Warden gear. Two mages, both powerful and masters of their art, and yet they were so different. It wasn’t magic that corrupted Danarius, that corrupted so many people. Magic had not made Danarius cruel, it did not force him to pour lyrium into Fenris’s body and turn him into what he was. Danarius chose that, just as Hawke chose to run off into the wilderness for fun and Merrill chose to lead her clan, how Aveline took up her dead husband’s shield and Brother Sebastian chose to lead a religious life, how Isabela chose to wander the seas and Varric chose to put his fingers in everyone’s business.

Danarius was a mage who chose to use his magic to hurt others. Anders was a mage who used his magic to heal.

“Yes, me.” Anders retorted. “Let Fenris go and I might just decide to give you a minute’s head start.” The way Anders said it, it seemed like Danarius should be grateful for that little bit of leniency.

“I would like to see you try and stop me.” Danarius declared. He descended down the stairs, drawing a ritual knife from his sleeve. Fenris knew what was coming next. Danarius would summon demons, and he had years more experience than Hadriana did. It did not matter how many warriors and mages fought against him, Danarius was a formidable enemy fortified by a Templar ally. A Templar ally who was now full of wrath. Meredith drew her sword and stormed down another flight of stairs.

“Knight Captain, do your duty and take these apostates into custody.” Meredith declared, pointing her sword at Hawke, sweeping it to include Merrill and Anders in her statement, giving Bethany Hawke and her Kirkwall Enchanter robes a particularly venomous look before finally ending her sweep to point her blade at the Hedgewitch. Hawke only crossed his large arms and raised an eyebrow, as if he dared Cullen to try and lay a hand on him. Merrill looked mildly puzzled. Anders was clearly unimpressed. His eyes narrowed, looked over Meredith once, and dismissed her, returning his attention to Danarius and, then, to Fenris. The Hedgewitch was the only one who expressed anything close to fear, and she first looked to the Knight Captain, clutched her staff tighter in her hands, and then glared up at Meredith. She was ready for a fight. They all were. All they were waiting for was for someone to attack first.

“Knight Commander Meredith Stannard, I relieve you of your duty.” Cullen announced. “You have allowed a Tevinter magister and blood mage enter the sanctuary of Kirkwall’s Chantry, have made plans to invade the protected hunting and traveling grounds of the Dalish Clan Sabrae, and plan to enslave citizens of Kirkwall and other parts of the Free Marches. You dereliction of duty can no longer be ignored.”

Meredith’s expression was apoplectic, her face going from beetroot red purple to ice white. At first her eyebrows twitched, her mouth opened to protest, and then it was still. She was eerily calm. The grip around her sword hilt tightened, and she raised her shield. She scanned the assembled mages and warriors and rogues, and seemed to pick one target from the crowd.

“You have betrayed me. You have all betrayed me!” Meredith exclaimed. “But there will be payment, Knight Captain. Slow payment. You will learn what it means to be betrayed, and you will learn what it means when you ally yourself with mages.” She lifted her sword and charged into the crowd, straight at the Hedgewitch.

For a moment it seemed as though Meredith would reach the young woman and skewer her with her blade. Cullen was running to her side, too slow to stop the attack but still willing to try. The Hedgewitch held her staff, blade out, lightning dancing on metal, ready for danger. But what could a small wisp of a mage do against a fully trained Templar bent on destroying them all? It was then that the swans struck.

Flying as one organized troop, the swans swept down from the pews and rafters, screaming and flapping their wings as they bombarded Meredith. Feathers covered the floor and fluttered in the air as Meredith shrieked with rage before the swans flew away again and the Chantry burst into chaos.

The Hedgewitch ducked and dodged Meredith’s angry swiping, Cullen jumping between the two, driving Meredith back with his own sword and shield. With a whistle two Templars emerged from the shadows of the Chantry, flanking Meredith and pressing their advantage. Cullen would block a blade with a shield and another would come from the other side. The Hedgewitch would blast a foe with fire or lightning or ice before ducking out of the way of a smite. She would hide behind Cullen, then Aveline and Carver, weaving through warriors and shooting lightning at her enemies as swans wheeled through the air and dived at the Hedgewitch’s targets. The others joined into the battle, spells and arrows flying as blades gleamed in the light of hundreds of candles.

Danarius stood back and watched the battle, clearly amused at how the Templars kept the crowd at bay. Fenris wanted to wipe the smug smile off that face for good. He tried to break through the rope tying his hands together behind his back, but he was tired and could not break them. Did Danarius enchant these bonds? It felt as if they drained his strength until he was as weak as a kitten.

“Hey, Elf.” A friendly, familiar voice whispered in Fenris’s ear. “Don’t say a word, I’m cutting through the rope.”

“It is good to see you again, Varric.” Fenris whispered back. He could feel Varric’s knife sawing through the thick rope, and though he wished Varric would hurry up Fenris was grateful that he was taking his time. He didn’t want to be bleeding all over everything when there was a battle to be won. Fenris dared to let himself hope as Meredith’s Templars began to retreat down the Chantry hall.

“Yeah, yeah, buy me a drink when all this is over. Didn’t think Meredith would’ve lost her mind this quickly.” Varric remarked. “Good friends you gathered up, that Warden fellow looks tough.”

“Anders is a skilled fighter.” Fenris acknowledged as Anders blasted one of Meredith’s cronies with fire before turning his attention to Danarius. Varric cut through the rest of the rope, and Fenris brought his hands in front of him, rubbing at the raw skin and working feeling back into his hands.

“Anders, huh?” Varric whistled softly. “Damn, Blondie cleans up good.”

“He certainly does.” Fenris joked, his voice and knees weak as he climbed to his feet. Weak, but he could still function. He could still fight. Varric hoisted his crossbow up and took a pot shot at Danarius. The bolt crumbled into ash when it came too close to Danarius’s wards, but Fenris appreciated the effort. He scanned the top landing next to the altar for a weapon, but all he had was a wooden stick. It was better than nothing, so Fenris took it in hand and raced down the stairs to disarm Danarius, who flicked off Anders’s rain of fire as if it were a bug. He seemed calm, but Fenris caught a glimpse of Danarius's eyes and knew differently.

The man was furious.

“You play with magics you couldn't possibly comprehend.” Danarius told Anders as he drew his knife out and held it at his palm. “You think I can be defeated by mere elemental trickery? Do you think to take on a Magister of the Imperium, Warden?”

“Oh, I’m just providing cover. It's not my job to rip you apart.” Anders replied. “It wouldn't be justice.” Anders smiled, but it was one with little humor or joy in it. It was still a beautiful smile. And when Anders looked to him Fenris couldn’t help but return it. With Anders by his side and their friends guarding their backs, they could defeat Danarius. They had defeated Hadriana, his apprentice. They were merely ripping the whole rotten tree out from the root.

“Don’t worry, Fenris. I won’t kill him for you.” Anders called out as Fenris descended from the altar. “I’m just giving you a fair start.”

“That’s more than anyone has given before.” Fenris replied. “I thank you, Anders.”

“Thank me when it’s over.” Anders said when Fenris reached the bottom of the stairs and walked to Anders, never keeping his eyes off Danarius as he moved. He stood next to Anders, stick in hand. Anders looked at the stick, closed his eyes, and seemed to concentrate for a moment. His right hand sparked blue for a moment, there was a flash of brightness, and then there was a sword in Anders’s right hand where before there was nothing but a clenched fist. He presented it to Fenris hilt first. There was a ritual in Tevinter, Fenris thought. A ceremony, in which a former slave was presented a sword to give them their freedom. Even though they were in Kirkwall, in the Chantry where battle cries rang through the rafters and Anders couldn’t have possibly known of this rarely performed ceremony, Fenris couldn’t help but find it touching and oddly appropriate.

“It might hold out a little longer than a stick.” Anders offered, his expression sheepish. “A spirit blade keeps a strong edge, and with the lyrium in your skin I think you can manage to wield it.” Fenris took the sword in hand, felt the balance, the weight, the feel in his hand, and it was perfect. It was as if it was crafted for him and him alone. His sword, his freedom.

“What sort of mage are you?” Danarius breathed out, and when Fenris looked at the man he saw fear in his eyes. “What sort of Southern mage crafts a spirit blade? What are you?”

“I’m a mage who trained in more than one field of study, Magister.” Anders mocked. “Blood magic can never be a substitute for solid technique.” Danarius’s knife hovered over his open palm. Fenris waited for the knife to dip into that pale skin, to cut the palm and summon the hordes of demons that he knew Danarius could summon. But Danarius only chuckled and adjusted the knife so the point rested against his fingertip. The gesture was familiar to Fenris, but he did not know what it meant. His head was still muddled, still racing and confused. Anders was here and a man, all these people had come for him, Danarius was before him and he was no longer afraid. Fenris prepared himself for the worst with Anders by his side.

“If this is a battle of skill, Southern mage, I will best you.” Danarius declared, his voice cold and eyes confident. Arrogant. But as the knife point pressed against Danarius’s fingertip Fenris suddenly remembered. He remembered blood and horrors, and how one drop of blood could be as devastating as a fountain when wielded by a master.

“Anders, the knife!” Fenris shouted, but it was too late. Danarius pricked his finger with the knife, a drop spilled onto the ground, and the Chantry, already a maelstrom of conflict, became the scene of absolute pandemonium. Demons burst out of the ground, out of rifts and tears in the Fade, swarming over the walls and floors towards the combatants at the front of the Chantry and the doors beyond them.

“Flaming nug shit, we’ve got a live one!” Varric shouted from the altar above them. “Daisy, you better get those doors sealed before demons overrun Hightown!”

“Would that really be so bad?” Hawke joked, but he smacked one of Meredith’s Templars across the face with his staff before leaping over to engage in battle with a shade. But Fenris could no longer pay attention to the battle at the front of the Chantry. He had to protect the others from Danarius. He had to protect Anders from Danarius. 

He leaped into the mass of demons guarding Danarius, cutting through them with Anders’s spirit blade. He felt magic dance over his markings, but it was not the sharp bite of Danarius’s power licking across the lyrium. Danarius was trying to access the markings, but something was preventing him from using Fenris. Instead a warm magic flowing over the marks, soothing his sore muscles and easing his hurts. It was a familiar warmth. Anders’s magic.

Fighting with Anders by his side was as natural and easy as breathing. When Fenris dove into an attack, Anders supported him with magic. When Fenris had to retreat Anders held the line, stabbing at their enemies with the blade of his staff. They balanced each other. Fenris knew he could trust Anders to protect him, just as he knew he could protect Anders in battle.

Danarius was a master at his craft. He let the demons dance about the Chantry, causing havoc and destruction. Yet every master could be overwhelmed, and controlling so many demons at the same time was wearing him down. When the others began slaying the demons, Danarius began to flag until Anders ducked under the outstretched arm of a wraith like demon and knocked Danarius’s staff out of his hands. The wooden staff clattered to the floor, utterly useless, and Anders turned his attention to the demon playing bodyguard to Danarius’s right. Had Fenris remained as Danarius’s slave, it was where he would stand. But now he stood against his former master, and he made his own allies.

Fenris took advantage of Anders’s decision that left Danarius open for attack. He nimbly avoiding the demon’s grasping claws to reach out towards Danarius. His fingers brushed against velvet and silk, then phased through the rich fabrics and into the man’s flesh. The world narrowed down to this one moment: Fenris’s hand around Danarius’s heart, the pounding of blood in his ears, the sounds of battle a dull roar in his head. Fenris dropped the sword in his hand and held onto Danarius’s heart. The blade, spirit steel and all, disappeared when its access to the Fade and lyrium was cut off. It did not matter to Fenris. All that mattered was that he was here now and Danarius was no longer a threat.

“You play at being a man, but you are nothing more than a beast.” Danarius snarled, just for Fenris’s ears alone. “There is no room in the world for a beast. They will destroy you. I am the only one who will keep you, Fenris.”

“I am not a possession to be kept.” Fenris replied. “And you do not own me.” He tightened his fist around Danarius’s heart, felt it flutter and beat frantically, and Fenris felt the heartbeat end. He let Danarius fall to the Chantry floor, dead before the altar to Andraste, and Fenris could not find it in himself to feel any regret.

As if they had lost their heads with Danarius’s life, the demons he had summoned wandered through the Chantry, their attacks disoriented and weak. The demons were quickly dispatched of until only smoldering ashes remained. The Templars who assisted Meredith lay across the Chantry, either unconscious or dead. Several of the bodies were skewered with arrows, crossbow bolts from Varric and beautifully fletched arrows of crimson and white feathers from- Fenris remembered Brother Sebastian’s bow. The Chantry brother had an excellent eye and was fearless. But there was still one Templar left standing against them, though the Knight Commander could no longer fight. Meredith was held at sword point by two of her former subordinates, Carver Hawke and Knight Captain Cullen. She held up a finger and pointed to the mages present.

“Apostates! Traitors to Kirkwall! Abominations!” Meredith exclaimed, her eyes wild. “Bring them to the Gallows!” Fenris stepped in front of Anders, ready to fight off a mad woman. She would be difficult to battle. He had not realized he was so tired. Yet Fenris could still fight, and he would fight to keep Anders safe. Anders had done so for him, Fenris could afford the same courtesy.

“Enough, Meredith.” Cullen said. “Stand down.”

“You think I can be so easily replaced? Kirkwall will fall to ruin, and you will be the one who let it crumble into the sea.” Meredith hissed. “Blood mages, demons, traitors at every step-” Her voice was muffled when Carver Hawke slapped his hand over her mouth.

“The cellar’s open. We can chain her up, gag her, then send her to Val Royeux for trial.” Carver offered. No one disagreed with his suggestion. Aveline, grim faced and cheek smeared with drying blood, had a hold of Grand Cleric Elthina’s arm and spoke.

“This one can join her. Varric and I have been tracking her correspondence for months.” Aveline said. “How many letters have you sent, claiming that the mages of the Gallows were rebelling? How many times did you discuss the possibility of invoking the Rite of Annulment?” Elthina did not answer the question, and pointedly ignored the horrified expression on Brother Sebastian’s face.

“Ten.” Varric supplied cheerfully. “So much for letting the First Enchanter and Knight Commander work through their problems on their own.”

“Add on the charge of conspiring with a Magister of the Imperium.” Cullen said flatly. “We have enough witnesses to make that stick. Carver, if you would escort the former Knight Commander down to the cellars. I am certain we can keep the Grand Cleric in her apartments.” Aveline shuffled Elthina up the stairs, Isabela cheerfully following behind and Merrill following her. Merrill was speaking quietly to Elthina, but her expression was as dark as a storm cloud. Fenris wondered if she was scolding the cleric for her actions. Elthina did not answer her.

“So, Lady Manhands, learned that you might be getting hitched soon. If the Cleric isn't performing the ceremony-” Isabela said, her voice echoing through the Chantry.

“No, Isabela.” Aveline sighed. “No, you may not.” Fenris turned his attention from the Grand Cleric to Anders. Anders stood next to him, glancing around the Chantry and shifting his weight from foot to foot. When Fenris looked at him he smiled sheepishly and offered his hand to Fenris to shake.

“Surprised?” Anders asked weakly, and Fenris grinned back, taking Anders’s hand in his. It was warm and calloused and fit his perfectly. Fenris did not want to let it go.

“Pleasantly so.” Fenris murmured. “Though I have many questions.”

“As do I.” Anders replied. “But I think there are other matters to settle first.”

“Stay by my side.” Fenris ordered, and he pulled Anders towards their friends. They were occupied with orienting themselves after the chaos of the battle, and did not notice Anders or Fenris approach. Carver, with a smile that was too similar to Garrett’s, wrenched Meredith off the floor. 

“Come on. Down to the cellar you go. Bethany, can you make sure she doesn't talk?” Carver asked his sister.

“No, Carver, magic doesn't work like that.” Bethany replied. “You could force feed her a sleeping draught if you get desperate.” The twins walked together down the Chantry hall, Carver dragging a now shrieking Meredith behind him. Cullen shook his head and turned to the Hedgewitch, who was quietly checking on her swans. The birds preened under her attentions, and the smallest one seemed to proudly strut about and show off the slightly singed feathers on his left wing.

“Miss, are you well?” Cullen asked kindly, and the Hedgewitch merely shrugged, watching her swans and not looking at him. She noticed Anders and Fenris and waved hello to them before motioning to Fenris and gesturing to her wrists. Fenris looked down. The rope that had tied his hands together rubbed the skin raw.

“I can fix that.” Anders said quietly. “Potion or magic, though the magic might have to wait. I drained myself when I fought off that little rage demon that blighted Magister tossed at me.”

“A potion will suffice.” Fenris replied. “You must gather your strength.” Anders took Fenris’s wrists in his hands and began to fuss over them, pouring potions and bandaging them up. Fenris let him fuss. It was nice to be cared for.

“Evelyn?” Brother Sebastian’s strong voice called from behind them, startling the Hedgewitch. “Evelyn Trevelyan, is that you? I had thought you were in Ostwick Circle!” The Hedgewitch covered her mouth with her hand, as if to keep herself from making a sound, and scrambled back when Brother Sebastian approached her. The man stopped, and the six swans hurried to their mistress’s defense.

“It’s Sebastian Vael, remember? We played together as children, when my grandfather visited your father in Ostwick.” Sebastian said gently. “We were friends. We would race boats down the stream and steal lemon tarts from the cook with your brothers.” The Hedgewitch- Evelyn- raised her hand and waved hello after a moment, granting Sebastian a weak smile.

“Ostwick Circle collapsed nearly two years ago. The mages who were alive either joined other Circles or became apostates.” Cullen said quietly, staring at Evelyn’s tattered Enchanter robes. “Ostwick’s fall inspired Meredith to crack down harder on the mages in Kirkwall’s Circle.”

“In the case of a rather stunning display of courage and skill in the defense of Kirkwall, I think we can let an apostate or two fall through the cracks.” Garrett Hawke suggested. “But that’s just me. No one has to listen to the Champion’s suggestions, Maker knows Meredith didn't.”

“Meredith’s methods did not protect anyone.” Cullen admitted. “They protected nothing but her own self-interest. I think, in this case, we must rebuild. There must be change.”

“I think we've got Curly on our side, Big Hawke.” Varric said with a smile. “I think you can sneak out of here without any trouble, Feathers.” He sent a particularly charming smile towards Evelyn, who blushed brightly and gathered the smallest swan in her arms before making her way to the large bay stallion still miraculously waiting inside the building. Anders hurried over towards her, navigating the wall of swans keeping the others at bay. Fenris followed, reluctant to let Anders's hand go for even a moment.

“Thank you for helping me, Evelyn.” Anders murmured. “This must have been frightening for you, so- well, thank you.” Evelyn shook her head and patted Anders’s arm. No problem, she seemed to say. Fenris inclined his head towards her.

“Thank you for your help. Ride safely.” He said. Sebastian cautiously approached the woman and her swans and waited for Anders and Fenris to retreat. When they did he stepped forward to speak with Evelyn. He reached out and gently held Evelyn’s hand in both of his.

“If you need a place to stay, Evelyn, you have a place here in Kirkwall.” Sebastian said firmly. “There will always be a place here for a family friend.” Evelyn smiled and nodded her head to indicate that she understood Sebastian's words.

“Is that Ser Kieran’s horse?” Cullen asked after Evelyn hoisted herself up into the saddle, the smallest swan with the wounded wing sitting on her lap. “We were performing mounted exercises when his horse bolted into the forest two days ago, lad broke his arm-” He fell silent when Evelyn stared at him with her dark brown eyes, as if daring him to continue speaking.

“You can borrow it until he’s recovered, Enchanter Evelyn.” Cullen said politely. Evelyn shrugged, waved a final farewell to Anders and Fenris, and trotted out of the Chantry doors with her head held high. Her swans gracefully flew after her, five white shapes in the sky.

“Well, that’s a story in the making.” Varric mumbled. “Add a tragic love interest, a few ripped bodices-”

“Oh, another tale?” Merrill exclaimed as she walked down the stairs with Isabela and Aveline. “Can we read it yet, Varric?”

“Not yet.” Varric replied with a chuckle. “We’ve got some work to do before I can settle down for a writing session.”

“As long as your next story is appropriately flattering, I’m sure we can find you time to write.” Carver said as he walked up the stairs with Bethany. Varric rolled his eyes, and might have muttered something about everyone being an editor these days, but Fenris didn’t pay much attention. It was over. It was all truly over. He would never be chased by Danarius again. He was truly free. The realization was more than a little shocking.

“If that’s all, we can head down to the Hanged Man and sort this mess out over a pint.” Garrett Hawke declared. “I’m beat.” No one could exactly disagree with Hawke’s suggestion. A drink and a moment to breathe away from the burnt smell of dead demons and spilled blood was welcome. Hawke filed everyone out of the Chantry until Brother Sebastian, Knight Captain (or was it now Knight Commander?) Cullen, Varric, Anders, Fenris, and himself were left at the entrance of the Chantry.

“I fear that we will leave the city in chaos, if we do not establish our leadership now.” Sebastian said softly. “We must make plans.”

“I can take charge of the Templars for some time, but another must be chosen as Commander. I am too entrenched in Meredith’s doings. It would not be right. There would be no change.” Cullen added. “It will not be easy.” Nothing in life was easy, Fenris thought. But there were some things that were worth the challenge. Rebuilding Kirkwall, making it a safe haven for all people, people who would risk everything to protect a man in need, perhaps that dream was worth the hard work that lay ahead.

“Which is why we should go to the tavern and talk it all out over a pint.” Hawke replied, wrapping one arm around Cullen’s shoulders and the other around Sebastian’s. “Varric? You coming? Fenris? Warden?”

“Anders.” Anders said, and when Hawke gaped at him Anders shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a long story.” He sounded as tired as Fenris felt.

“We’ll get it out of you over a drink.” Hawke decided before looking over to Fenris. “Fenris, you need a moment?”

“Yes. I will meet you at the Hanged Man. With Anders.” Fenris said, clinging tightly to Anders’s hand. Not yet, Fenris thought desperately. Do not leave me yet.

“See you then. Don’t take forever.” Hawke herded them out of the Chantry, leaving Fenris and Anders alone at the entrance of the Chantry, holding hands. Fenris watched the group of their friends walk down Hightown’s main square and descend into Lowtown and towards the Hanged Man. The weak fall sunlight streamed through the windows and open door, and he and Anders stood together in that sunlight.

“How are your wrists, Fenris?” Anders asked softly.

“They are healing. Thank you.” Fenris replied. It was silent for some time as they stood side by side. Fenris had so many questions, so many things to say and ask and apologize for, but he did not know where to begin. What could he even say to a man who hurt him, who healed him, who risked everything he was to save him? Fenris did not know. He only knew that he must try.

“You came to Kirkwall.” Fenris whispered.

“Yes.” Anders said.

“You came for me.” Fenris could hardly believe it, but it had to be true. What other reason would Anders have come here to Kirkwall?

“Of course I did.” Anders murmured, turning his head to meet Fenris’s gaze, and oh! Those were Anders’s eyes, that warm amber, that kindness, that same light and humor and charm and sorrow. This was Anders, his Anders, and he was here. He came for him.

“I couldn’t just let that bastard hurt you and drag you back with him.” Anders said. “And I wanted to make it up to you. I lied about who I was, I hurt you. I had to try and make things right.”

“We were both hasty.” Fenris replied. “I did not trust you. You were my friend and I doubted you too easily.” He doubted a man who had never given him cause to doubt.

“I hope we are still friends, Fenris.” Anders murmured. “I am sorry for using magic when you so dislike it. I understand why, now. At least a little better.”

“We are still friends, Anders.” Fenris squeezed Anders’s hand. “Though it is strange to see you as a human.”

“Oh?” Anders wiped some ashes off his Warden robe. “It was a little odd. One moment I was cursed, and the spirits told me you were in danger. I decided to rescue you, and then I was a man again. It was frustrating, all I could think was that it would take me longer to reach you if I was stuck using human legs.” 

Odd seemed to be an understatement, and Fenris wondered what ended the curse. Was it Anders’s decision to protect a friend, regardless of the danger to himself? Anders had said he enjoyed being a beast, the strength of his form and the way his eyes could see in the dark. Would Anders miss it? Perhaps they would never find an answer, but Fenris was content to let a few mysteries lie undisturbed for now.

“Is it unappealing?” Anders asked. “I’m older than I was the last time I was human. Age isn’t always kind.”

“I find you very appealing.” Fenris said firmly. “It was your mind I was first attracted to, but I think you are- that is, you are attractive, Anders.”

“I’m flattered.” Anders winked, and Fenris’s heart fluttered with that wink. He had felt comfortable and safe in Anders’s company when he took the form of a lion-beast. Now that Anders was a man, Fenris was unsettled. Yet he was still excited to experience more, discover more of what he felt with Anders by his side.

“Danarius wanted me to talk.” Fenris blurted out. “He tried to use the markings, but your charm- it protected me. He could not hurt me. So he began to threaten the people I knew. Hawke, Isabela. And I knew, eventually, they would harm you. I refused to say a word, but I did not know how long it would hold until-” Until Anders showed up on a horse and fought Danarius off long enough for Fenris to escape. If Anders hadn’t arrived, Fenris was certain he would break. Then all of Kirkwall, all of Sundermount, it would have been chaos. Fenris would be back in Tevinter, and his friends would be imprisoned or dead.

“I would have told him everything, eventually. He and Meredith would have killed you, Anders.”

“But they didn’t.” Anders’s voice was gentle. “Fenris, no one hurt me. You made sure of that.”

“It is hard to convince myself that it is real.” Fenris murmured. “You’re here, we’re alive-” And Anders was beautiful in the sunlight, beautiful and alive and in his arms and real. Anders took his hands in his and held them up.

“Fenris.” Anders said, and his eyes were tender. Was that tenderness for him?

“Fenris, I’m more than a little in love with you.” Anders said. “Will you give me a chance to prove myself to you, prove that a mage can make a good, loyal partner? Will you let me prove my worth?”

“Anders,” Fenris whispered. “You already have.” Anders leaned down, Fenris tipped his head back to meet him, and they kissed. Anders’s lips were chapped, the scratchy beginnings of a beard scraped against Fenris’s skin, it was a slight, soft pressure against his mouth, too much and still not enough. And when they pulled away, Fenris could not find it in himself to let go of Anders’s hands.

“Stay.” Fenris pleaded. “Stay here. I do not have much beyond myself, but stay.”

“You are more than enough, Fenris.” Anders replied. Fenris stepped away and tugged at Anders’s hand, leading him out of the Chantry.

“Come. We will meet with our friends, and we will learn what comes after.” Fenris said, and hand in hand they walked together out into the sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might go back over this and edit some more, but I hope it's acceptable! Only one more chapter to go!


	10. In Which Everything Is All Wound Up

That night in the Hanged Man was the most memorable night in living memory. The city fumbled around in confusion at the imprisonment of the Templar Knight Commander and the Chantry’s Grand Cleric. What would happen next? How would Kirkwall recover from such a devastating blow? Would the Divine order a march upon the city? A small trickle of truth and rumor in the right ears, and word that both Commander and Cleric had brought a magister of the Imperium and a blood mage into the sacred heart of the Chantry itself spread through the city like wildfire. Soon enough the people were willing to wait for what would come next instead of running to the hills. Whatever the future held, it couldn't be worse than a Templar Commander and Grand Cleric conspiring to take over the city with the help of a blood mage!

“So, Daisy, how did you know to come here to Kirkwall to help with the great battle?” Varric asked when their group had gathered around his private table upstairs. Nora, the barmaid, proprietress, and general no nonsense ruler of the pub, served drinks and took empty tankards away. If she was listening in on the conversation, she was at least subtle about her eavesdropping.

“The clan’s scouts captured a Templar, a Ser Kieran, for snooping around. He claimed he had lost his horse and was looking for it, but we also noticed that he was marking a map with all our known campgrounds in the woods and on the mountain.” Merrill explained before taking a sip of her drink. “Oh my, that is strong! But in the end I came to Kirkwall to inform the Knight Commander of our treaty and that we do not like spies.” Merrill looked over to Cullen, who seemed both surprised and terribly embarrassed.

“Since you’re the Knight Commander For now I will just tell you. We Dalish have a treaty with the city state of Kirkwall, and we Dalish do not like spies. Stop sending your Templars to our camps to spy on us, we do not wish to worship the goddess you burn.” Merrill informed him.

“It’s a little more complicated than that-” Cullen sighed. “I understand, Lady-”

“Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae.” Isabela informed Cullen with a smirk. “And as to why I was in Kirkwall, darling Varric sent me a note about some odd shipments that have gone missing from the docks. Weapons and lyrium. He wanted to know what I knew, and I was curious enough to look. Didn't find the crates but I found plenty of commotion!”

“We found them.” Aveline said as the door opened and Sebastian sat down at the table with the Hawke twins. The only people absent from the room were Fenris and Anders, and everyone present had a good idea of what those two were up to. They were a little too occupied with each other to pay much attention to a meeting that would determine the fate of the city.

“Found what?” Bethany asked. The door opened once again, and Fenris and Anders entered the room. The two looked disheveled, as if they had run to reach the Hanged Man so quickly, and Fenris and Anders were smiling at each other as they took a seat at the table. Fenris shut his eyes and leaned against Anders, and Anders kept his arm wrapped around Fenris's shoulders. "Good to see you both made it." Hawke said cheerfully. "Mind telling us how you became all un-cat like, Anders?"

"I would if I could." Anders replied. "Still trying to figure it out myself."

"I have my theories." Fenris murmured. "Courage, determination, love- common themes in fairy tales. Common cures for curses."

"Fairy tales? Curses?" Varric asked, lifting an eyebrow and reaching towards his coat pocket for his parchment and ink.

"A theory Fenris has." Anders said hastily. "But back to what Bethany asked, what was it that was found?"

“Crates of weapons and pots full of raw lyrium shipped into the city. A fortune of the stuff, and none of it signed for. Meredith tried to claim rights to it, saying it must have been ordered by a Circle mage because of the amount of lyrium.” Aveline rolled her eyes. “I held onto it instead. Told her it was a matter for the Viscount to settle.”

“So Meredith has them stored somewhere.” Hawke grumbled, but Aveline, pleased as a cat who ate the cream, handed Hawke a large brass key.

“Kept them in the Viscount’s Keep. I didn't get any proof of purchase, I was not going to have the Knight Commander take in stolen goods.” Aveline announced.

“Ah, good old Lady Manhands.” Isabela chortled. “Any plans with those goods now?”

“When a receipt is produced I will give them to the rightful owner.” Aveline declared. “And I can spot a forgery, Isabela, so don't even try.”

“Fenris, you’re falling asleep in your seat.” Anders said gently, interrupting the conversation. “I think you should return to your bed.” The others were so engaged in their discussion of what would happen to Kirkwall that they had forgotten two of their members. They had cleaned off the blood from the battle, and though Fenris had stripped out of his armor Anders still wore his Warden robes. 

“I would rather stay here.” Fenris mumbled, his head resting on Anders’s shoulder. “The conversation is pleasant.”

“You two can borrow the bench over there.” Varric gestured to a padded bench covered in pillows set up by the window. “Good spot to take a nap.” Anders and Fenris stumbled as they made their way to the bench. Fenris settled into the cushions, Anders curled around him like a long limbed cat, and the two quickly fell asleep, their chests slowly rising and falling.

“Maker, they’re exhausted.” Hawke whistled. “Good for us, at least they won’t be making eyes at each other all night.”

“Like the puppy eyes Fenris gave Anders when he wasn’t looking? Or the way Anders kept smiling when Fenris put his head on his shoulder?” Merrill asked cheerfully. “Or that they were holding hands the entire time-”

“Yes, all that.” Hawke said hastily. “We should wrap this up, let them get their sleep.” The rest of the group quietly discussed Kirkwall’s future as two of the men who fought to give Kirkwall a future slept soundly in the window of a Lowtown tavern and inn. 

They did not wake until the next morning, when the sun hung high over the city and the cry of hundreds of seagulls echoed through the sky. They were alone, though some considerate soul left them food and drink to devour. The two sleepily ate and drank, and no words were exchanged. No words needed to be exchanged. They were content to sit together and share in the silence. The future and all its complicated possibilities could wait. They knew that they could face it side by side.

-

There is a small apartment above a clinic in the city of Kirkwall. The clinic opens with the rising of the sun and closes its doors long after the street lamps have been lit. The poor, the needy, and the desperate will always find a warm place to sit, a cup of tea to drink, and a friendly healer who will examine their maladies and injuries and give them proper treatment. It may be located in Hightown, in the former ruins of a mansion haunted by ghosts and wolves, but the healer and his partner (and their many influential, powerful friends) transformed the building into something more than a crumbling, decadent shell of former glory. It was a building with purpose, a building with a sorrowful past and a hopeful future.

The high-born neighbors would gossip and stare at the occupants of the apartment above the clinic. There goes that strange pair, the Warden mage and the elven mercenary. Did you know they killed a Magister together? I heard they exposed the corruption of the Grand Cleric and the Knight Commander! I saw them at the Champion’s Wintersend dinner party! They were so absorbed in each other they scarcely took note of the Champion urging his mabari to chew on Lady Haridan’s slippers!

The neighbors often gossiped, and the pair gave the nobles much to gossip about. The clinic was busy at almost all hours, the Warden offering his healing services to those in need and those willing to pay the coin, while the elf offered fencing lessons in the yard for those who wished it. Neither man lacked in visitors- the Warden’s healing gifts were sorely needed and the elf’s swordplay was much admired. The neighbors often heard the pair debate all matter of subjects, and some wondered how such an argumentative couple could stand the sight of each other. But the more observant of the gossipers noted the smile on the Warden’s face and the gleam in the elf’s eyes- their debates were only playful jest, a build up to their evening matches.

There may be doubt in the day, but at night it was clear that the pair living in the former haunted mansion were madly in love. The two were so enthusiastic and noisy at night that their neighbors had taken to blocking their ears with beeswax and cotton. The more industrious ones hired workmen to thicken their walls with plaster to block out the sound. In the morning the men would turn to their daily tasks, their banter and smiles showing the world that they were satisfied with their relationship. But the neighbors already knew. They heard it all at night.

“Fenris!” Anders cried out. The bedroom was illuminated by the silvery light of the moon. Anders’s hair was splayed across the pillowcase, bright gold against pale cotton cloth. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as he lay on his back. Fenris sat above him, moving slow, just a gentle rise and fall of his hips. Anders reached towards those hips with his hands, reaching to guide Fenris, to lead him, to show him exactly how he wanted Fenris to ride him, but Fenris pushed the hands away. He was magnificent in the moonlight, beautiful and powerful and in complete control.

“Hands on the bedposts, Anders. You promised.” Fenris reminded Anders, who groaned and shut his eyes. But he obeyed Fenris and returned his hands to the bedposts. Waiting would be worth it, Anders told himself. Fenris would never leave him wanting.

“Fool promise.” Anders gasped as Fenris increased his pace, riding his cock and making him writhe with pleasure.

“A promise is a promise.” Fenris said firmly, and then he rolled his hips and clenched his ass and Anders nearly screamed.

“Please, please please, oh please!” Anders begged, and Fenris, flushed and grinning, came. Anders followed soon after him. When Fenris collapsed on his chest they curled together and tried to catch their breath. The sweat on their skin cooled in the evening air, and their bodies were silver and gold twined together in pale bed sheets.

“You begged.” Fenris said, his voice more than a little smug. “I was in control.”

“Yes, I did.” Anders agreed. “And yes, you were.” He reached his hand up and stroked Fenris’s hair, running his fingers through the white strands. Anders had always found pleasure in physical intimacy, but he found even more joy in sharing the intimacy with Fenris. Fenris enjoyed himself, and Fenris's pleasure only added to Anders's.

“I did not think sex could be pleasant.” Fenris said. “You have taught me yet another lesson, Anders.” Anders felt Fenris’s lips curl into a broad smile against his neck. He was thinking of a joke, Anders knew. His heart fluttered in his chest, thinking of Fenris and his jokes and his willingness to share these jokes with Anders. He had worried that there would be distance, strangeness now that he had his human form restored to him, but they had grown closer. 

“What are you thinking?” Anders murmured.

“That you are a master of many skills.” Fenris replied. “But I would rather you not share these particular talents with others.” Anders chuckled and buried his face into Fenris’s hair. He still luxuriated in the feeling of having hands that could hold that lacked claws that would tear and rend flesh. He could touch Fenris and give him comfort and pleasure without the fear of causing harm.

“There are some skills that I reserve just for you, Fenris.” Anders said, and he tipped Fenris’s head back to press a kiss to Fenris’s warm, soft mouth. Fenris lazily returned the kiss, his fingers tangling in Anders’s hair as they embraced.

“Good.” Fenris murmured. “Good.”

“I think we should make another trip into Sundermount soon.” Anders said softly. “Visit our friends, sleep under the stars, perhaps visit the manor.” Fenris pushed strands of golden red hair out of Anders’s eyes and pressed kisses to his closed eyelids.

“Aveline asked me to patrol the Sundermount roads and look for bandit activity.” Fenris replied. “And who better to handle such matters than us?”

“A Warden healer and elven mercenary?” Anders asked. “We’ll be a fearsome sight, won’t we?” It was gentle teasing, the sort they always employed in these quiet moments between them.

“Yes.” Fenris agreed, his eyes bright and eager. “Our enemies will now face two wild beasts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this story! I appreciate it. Please leave any questions in the comments, and I will do my best to answer them!

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote for fun, and I hope everyone has fun reading it too!


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